You & Me & The Devil Makes 3
by MikaMurha
Summary: The Mayor of Gotham's oldest daughter, Ava, has some dark habits, much like her new psychiatrist, Jonathan Crane. Lucky for her, Scarecrow's vices are going to destroy Gotham, and he might just want an accomplice. Pre-Batman Begins. Crane / OC. Rated M for language, violence, and sexual content.
1. Living Dead Girl

Chapter One : Living Dead Girl

_**"Crawl on me, sink into me, die for me, living dead girl."**_

She shoved through a rough crowd of Gotham's citizens, breaking out of the swarm that overran the subway station. Digging her hand into the inside pocket of her worn leather motorcycle jacket, she pulled out a pack of Camels. Pressing one between her full lips, she lit it and drew in deeply, shivering against the chill of the December air.

As she climbed the stairs, she cast cold looks at anyone who bumped into her. Her hands were hiding in her pockets, clenched around her wallet and cigarettes, practically daring anyone to try and sneak them out of her grasp. She had just turned 18, and her name was Ava Garcia.

Ava walked for an hour or so against the biting, prickly chill of Gotham. It wasn't that she had somewhere to be, but that she had somewhere she was avoiding being.

She stopped only once, walking leisurely into a small coffee shop. She nodded politely at the counterman, after a friendly exchange, she handed him her money and left with one numb hand wrapped around a black coffee. She walked on, sipping the coffee, lighting a new cigarette at certain intervals, and watching the sky fade from gray to purple to ink black. As the shops began to shut off their lights, Ava checked the battered watch on her wrist. 10:23. 5 hours, she'd been wandering, trying to avoid going home like she did every day. She frowned, and waved to a cab in a resigned sort of way. She dropped her cigarette and twisted her shoe against it, grinding it into the cement and blackening the pavement. Sliding into

the back of the car, she buckled her seatbelt and ran a hand through her blonde hair.

"536 Jackal Drive, please." She murmured to the cabbie. He nodded and the car lurched forward, pacing itself into a steady crawl. She stared sullenly out the window, watching the city's spotted lights of red and yellow pass through the blurred condensation of the glass. Several short minutes passed before the small vehicle crunched to a stop at the end of a gravel road.

"You sure you don't want me to go all the way down? It's cold out there." The driver asked helpfully.

"I'd rather walk, trust me. Thank you." Ava responded, smiling bitterly. She pressed a few rumpled bills into his palm and nodded. "Keep the change. 'Night."

Her boots crunched against the small rocks in the dirt. She rubbed the back of her neck, twisting the ring on her middle finger around in circles. The lights of her house approached her as she did them, peeking through the looming trees with their obnoxiously bright bulbs. The house itself hid behind them, tall and towering and made of pale brick. Its driveway was an elegant curve with six ridiculously expensive cars parked along it. A pretentious and ugly fountain sat in the garden. Through the wide front window, a man could be seen sitting on an expensive wing chair with a glass of brandy in his hand, eyes fixed on a TV replaying last week's football game. Ava rolled her eyes, and looked to one of the second story windows. A 16 year old girl was curled against her bedcushions. Her long, messy black hair was untied from its usual braids, and she was reading the Hobbit. Ava felt a soft smile touch her lips at the sight of her younger sister, Naomi.

She walked on, gently twisting the front door handle and walking in. She tucked her unneeded keys back into her pocket and shut the door behind her. Quietly, she tried

to tiptoe to the staircase.

"Ava." A male voice broke the silent murmur of the television. Ava mouthed a curse.

"Yeah?" She sighed.

"Could you come in here?" He asked. Ava clenched her jaw and turned, walking slowly into the den where her father sat in his chair. Anthony Garcia, mayor of Gotham, king of

the rich. She nodded curtly and raised her brows, a signal that she was listening.

"You've been doing a lot of questionable things lately." He began. Ava's jaw clenched tighter, attempting not to remark. "And I understand, you're almost an adult, you're under

a lot of pressure-" Ava held in a snort. "-and you might be led astray. But I think it's more than that." She raised her eyebrows derisively at her father. "I think you need to see

a professional." Ava couldn't help but let a choked laugh escape her throat. Smoking, drinking, having sex and staying out late? Since when did average teenage behavior indicate a medical condition? She mentally sneered that the only medical condition in the Garcia mansion was the stick up her father's ass. She considered advising him to get it surgically removed.

"A professional? A psychiatrist, you mean?" She asked, eyebrows arched.

"Yes, I do. And being in my position, I found the best doctor there is to offer. We're going to keep this all very discreet." He attempted to assure her. Ava scratched the side of her head, sighing and chuckling sarcastically.

"Wouldn't want your mentally questionable daughter to ruin your good image, yeah."

"Ava-" he began sternly. She waved him off.

"Whatever makes you happy. I'll see your psychiatrist. It'll be a good waste of time. When do I go?" She asked calmly.

"I made an appointment for you for 11:00 am tomorrow." He said quietly. Ava nodded, pausing and chuckling to herself.

"Unbelievable." She muttered.

Raking her fingers through her hair, she climbed the stairs.

Ava rustled under her sheets, eyes sleepily searching for the clock face on her nightstand. The neon beads of light blurred into focus through her squinted eyelashes, revealing 9:54 am. She sighed heavily, shifting over in her bed. Her legs flipped over the side of the bed as she rose stiffly. Arching her back and extending her fingertips, she stretched her muscles and ruffled her long hair. Her legs slipped into a pair of tight black jeans and motorcycle boots, while her arms wormed through the sleeves of a thick black sweater and her ragged jacket. Bent in front of the expensive vanity mirror, she twisted back and tied her blonde hair, and lined her pale green eyes thickly in charcoal liner. Once again, she vaguely regarded the nightstand's clock. 10:15. She snatched cigarettes, her battered leather wallet, and a ring of keys from the drawer of the desk and stuffed them into her pockets. Slipping quietly out of her room, she glanced at the door of her sister's room across the wide hallway. It was left open in the vague sort of way that suggested she was up. Early riser, Ava thought to herself.

"Ava." Naomi was looking up from her toast, beaming brightly at her older sister.

"Good morning." She said. Ava's eyes crinkled at their corners, smiling at the only

person she really cared for.

"Hey, doll. 'Morning. You seen the mayor lately?" She asked, snatching a piece of bacon from the skillet and chewing it slowly. Naomi nodded, gesturing to the office.

"I heard you're going in for psychiatric evaluation today. That sounds super fun." She said playfully. Ava scoffed, swallowing.

"Oh, yeah. He's decided my shenanigans are downright mental. Who knows, maybe they'll send me to Arkham." She joked. Naomi forced a laugh, eyes downcast in slight worry.

Ava tapped the counter cheerfully and turned, walking through the parlor towards the office.

"Knock knock." She said, pushing open the unlocked door.

"Oh, Ava. Our driver will take you to your appointment. You'll leave in ten minutes." He said distantly. Ava didn't bother to respond, except to nod. Sauntering vaguely back through the house, she eyed the clock on the wall, and sat down on the leather recliner. As ten minutes ticked by, she chewed her lip and waited patiently.

Naomi entered the room, coffee in hand.

"Driver's here." She said softly. Ava glanced up and nodded, climbing to her feet and heading towards the door. She paused when she reached her sister, who chewed the inside of her cheek tensely.

"Don't worry, hon. It'll be fine. We both know I'm a hell of a lot of things, but I am not crazy." A smile curved her lips.

"Who knows, maybe my psychiatrist is gonna be really hot. That'd be fun." She grinned and playfully nudged her sister. "I'll see you later."

A gruff looking man led the short, blonde girl down a long hallway. He pointed to a thick wooden door with a glossy nameplate that read 'DR. JONATHAN CRANE'. Before Ava had the thought to ask him anything, he turned and stalked away, key ring jingling. She brushed her fingers through her hair habitually and rapped her knuckles softly against the door. After a moment of standing there worrying she had done something wrong, or perhaps the doctor wasn't there, or...the door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man wearing glasses and an expensive suit. He had dark, thick hair and striking pale blue eyes. Ava's eyes widened slightly, and she felt embarrassment spark at the recollection of her comment about having a hot psychiatrist. He was gorgeous. She raised her eyebrows slightly, trying to recompose herself.

"Are you Dr. Crane?" She asked. "I'm Ava Garcia, I have an appointment, I suppose." Crane's head cocked slightly sideways as he raised a brow.

"I am. Come in." He held the door open wider, shutting it behind him and sitting in a large leather chair behind a desk. The office was all polished wood and metal, orderly and pristine. Ava wondered if she should have worn something other than her regular attire. She sat carefully on a sleek sofa across from Dr. Crane's desk.

"So, you're the mayor's daughter, yes?" Crane asked in a bored tone. Ava nodded. "And for what reason has he sent you to see me?" He asked. Ava scoffed softly.

"I wish I knew. He thinks my lifestyle is an implication of mental illness, I guess." She smiled regretfully.

"Your lifestlye? Would you care to elaborate, Miss Garcia?"

"I believe he thinks I'm...promiscuous." She said, raising her eyebrows and smirking slightly.

"Would you consider yourself promiscuous?" He asked. Ava laughed.

"I don't know what defines promiscuity, Dr. Crane...especially not in his eyes. I think I'm someone who does what they want to, and promiscuity is what people who don't have any fun call it.." She drawled.

Crane watched her intently.

"How old are you, Miss Garcia?"

"I'm eighteen, Dr. Crane."

"Awfully young to be considered..." he flicked over a paper he was holding. "...a promiscuous sadomasochist with tendencies of exhibitionism."

Ava clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter that erupted. She composed herself after a moment, giggling softly.

"I'm sorry...I got that first bit...would you mind

explaining to me what exhibitionism is?" Her eyebrows arched, smile still curving the corners of her lips.

"Exhibitionism is the tendency or urge to...expose oneself to the public, it's classified as a sort of sexual thrill-seeking."

Ava snorted. "That was once." She said stubbornly. The doctor raised his eyebrows. She grinned to herself, deep in thought and memory. She sat back against the couch,

crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

"So, tell me something, doctor." She said. Crane waited. "Do you think I'm a...promiscuous sadomasochist exhibitionist?" She smiled brightly. Crane rolled his eyes.

"I believe your father is paranoid."

"That makes two of us."

"It's completely normal for a woman your age to want to be rebellious and experiment with her sexuality."

Ava raised her eyebrows, smiling. "Is it normal for their rich, distant fathers to classify this as a mental disorder and send them to a psychiatrist?"

"Mmmm...no."

She nodded again, smiling.

Scarecrow awoke in Dr. Crane's mind, peering out at the blonde teenager on the psych sofa with her tight pants and heeled boots.

_**'Well, well, who's this?'**_ He inquired deviously.

_'Shut up, Scarecrow. She's a patient.' _

_**'Since when do you take patients, Jonny-boy?'**_

_'Since their fathers are the mayor and pay me quite well. Now shut up.'_

_**'She's pretty hot.'**_

_'She's eighteen.'_

_**'We're in luck! That's legal. Not that we mind.'**_

_'Shut up.'_

_**'C'mon. Look at her.**_'

Scarecrow fixed Jonathan's eyes on the girl. Her blonde hair hung in a straight curtain down her shoulders, her pale green eyes were framed with long

eyelashes. Her cheekbones were high and rounded, and her full lips were pale red. Her skin was tanned golden, and she tapped her heel against her leg. A slight flush was

spread across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Jonathan Crane was irritatingly aware of his roaming eyes.

_'I don't have time for this.'_

_**'I sure the hell do.'**_

_'Shut. Up.'_

Ava chewed the side of her thumb.

"Dr. Crane, can I ask something of you?" She spoke quietly. His pale eyes flicked upward, an eyebrow cocked in acknowledgement. He gave a small nod.

"As we just discussed, I'm not...mentally unstable. I'm not a whatever-the-hell he thinks I am. But...could you pretend I am? I rarely have an excuse to get away from the son of

a bitch and this being his idea, he'd love for me to come here and be 'treated' a few times a week or however often. And I'm sure he's paying you heavily to, ah, fix me."

At this proposal, a very slim smirk edged around Jonathan Crane's lips, as he'd been thinking along the same lines.

"I agree, Miss Garcia."

_**'Aw, hell, Jonny, she likes you!'**_ Scarecrow snorted.

_'You're an idiot. She just wants to get out of the house, this has nothing to do with me.'_

_**'I'm an idiot, Jonny? You're a fucking psychologist, look at the girl. Her body language,**__**her pupils'**_-Jonathan had to admit, they were very dilated-_**'she wants to fuck you.'**_

Jonathan was at a loss.

Ava watched her new psychologist with curious mint-green eyes as he seemed to be somewhere else entirely. She felt incredibly self-satisfied. A hot doctor, check.

A get-out-of-house-free ticket, check. And she'd practically been declared sane. Sure, there were a number of things she failed to mention, but if Gotham's best psychologist, Dr. Jonathan Crane—she spared another roaming glance at his many diplomas and certificates—couldn't see through her easy lies, she was surely just fine. She stood,

a small, gracious smile set on her lips.

"Dr. Crane, I thank you very much. I'm sure I'll be back soon so you can, ah, fix me." She walked out of the room, letting the heavy door close with a sleek click.

Her heart beat heavy in her chest and she was sure she was blushing at least a little.

"Promiscuous." She muttered under her breath.


	2. Make Me Bad

Chapter Two : Make Me Bad _**"I want something to do, need to feel the sickness in you."**_

* * *

Ava left the office of Jonathan Crane with his eyes still fixed in her mind. Promiscuous was one thing, but that didn't require feeling. Not real feeling. Not that Ava really felt much. If she had to write a list of things she cared deeply about, it would have three bullets. Naomi, animals, and books. She had always been under the impression that she wasn't incredibly complex, nor had she ever been a romantic. Though academically she had succeeded, she hadn't put any effort into that either. Until there was a career in sarcasm available, Ava Garcia had nothing to do. All A's in school lended themselves to her options, but she just wasn't interested in any that were offered.

The 'conditions' her father was convinced she had were not conditions to her, but results of boredom. The exhibitionism that was on her rap sheet was not some subconscious desire for attention or thrill seeking. It was a product of boredom and one too many shots of Jack Daniels. She blushed, recalling. Something she did like, though, was violence. She kept this quiet, because people who like violence are often shut away in cold places with white walls. She did not want to be locked away. White didn't suit her. She didn't ever mention her interest to anyone. Not even to her dear sister, who knew every other detail of her life. She kept quiet, innocently, like someone with an unusual hobby. She treated it like someone would treat a coin collection or bad origami, as a thing to do on the weekends that she wasn't particularly proud of but not particularly ashamed of.

She liked violence, but she wasn't violent. Not when it wasn't necessary. She found herself surprised by her enjoyment when she'd witnessed two men fighting very near to her in a bar she'd snuck in to when she was 16. She heard the satisfying crunch of one man's bones beneath the other's fist, and it had made her heartbeat pick up. The resulting streak of crimson that ran down his lips had enticed her more.

She hadn't given a damn what the fight was about, whether the violence was justified, or if the man was ok. All she had noticed was how exciting it was to see the fight, and how it inspired her to do the same. She made it a habit to watch MMA fights and boxing, and any street or bar fight she happened past. She waited patiently for her own chance to do damage to someone who deserved it. In a city like Gotham, the opportunity had presented itself many times and would do so many times more.

Ava had let another day drain itself slowly since noon when she'd left Dr. Crane's. Now, at this time, the sky was a heavy navy color at its center, and the horizon was watercolored with magenta and orange. The sun slowly vacated the sky, slipping beneath Gotham City's edge of iron and concrete, leaving the city and its occupants in a night splotched with neons and car headlights. Ava didn't mind, she loved the nighttime. The car horns and sirens were familiar enough not to be intimidating. She was sitting in the iron chair of and outdoor cafe, waiting for nothing in particular. It occurred to her that it was time to go home, and reluctantly, she rose. She left money on the table, much more than she'd actually needed to pay for the small sandwich she'd purchased. If there was anyone that Ava was kind to, it was service employees.

She sauntered out of the small cafe, tugging her jacket around her as she basked in the chill of the night. Having made the decision to walk the mile back to the house she called home, she tucked her hair behind one ear and briskly walked down the side of the street. A light drizzle flickered through the clouds and pattered against the street, against her skin. She glanced up briefly, considering a cab. She didn't mind the rain, though. She doubted at this point that she would mind much of anything when she was having such a nice day. She was holding a cigarette between her teeth and raising a hand to light it when a heavy impact shoved her to a brick wall. A heavy impact that felt like a person and smelled like a bar. Blinded by surprise, she felt a gun against her abdomen before she registered that it was in the hand of a heavyset man with a hood and bad balance.  
The man in question growled a stutter at her.

"Give me your money!" He slurred. Even pressed against the side of a building with a Glock 30 aimed at her vital organs, she rolled her eyes. In a flash of movement she'd dug her left heel into the instep of the man's right foot and twisted the gun out of his right hand with hers. She smacked the hard metal of the handgun against his jaw, splattering blood from his lip across his cheek. She kicked him square in the chest with her left leg, the force sending the man tumbling backwards into the vacant street, echoing a crack as his skull hit the asphalt. She tsked apologetically and knelt down, one knee on his chest. Still holding the man's gun, she hit the release and let the magazine clatter to the street next to his head. She popped out the bullet from the chamber as well, listening to the tinkling sound of it as it fell beside her. She smiled sympathetically at the barely conscious man as she stuck his gun in the back of the waistband of her jeans.

"Don't threaten people on the street, my friend. There's a chance they're just dying to beat the shit out of someone like you." She murmured. She very lightly ran her fingers across the man's cheek before closing her fist and driving it against his skull with enough force to render him unconscious. Her knuckles throbbed. She smiled, standing and walking away without a glance backwards.

Jonathan Crane sat in a leather chair by the wide glass window of his apartment, reading. He was reading a heavy psychology text, one he'd read before. It had the worn quality of anything that had been paged through many times, but it had also been kept so well that not a page was torn, not a corner frayed. His long fingers moved to turn a page when he saw something out of his window. A drunken man stumbling out of a bar with a handgun clutched tightly and an expression that displayed his fear like a neon light. The guy glanced in all directions before seeing something that apparently interested him. Jonathan was only mildly curious, but he did continue to watch the man from his chair. Hood pulled up over his shaved head, his hands trembled as he shoved some girl into a wall. Jonathan watched intently with interest, but no intention to intervene.

He could see the man shouting, but couldn't read his lips through the raindrops on the window pane. Judging from his trembling and rushed demeanor, this was a robbery, an act of urgency. The female with the gun pressed to her stomach appeared not only unafraid, but complacent. Her hair was white blonde and fell almost to her elbows. Jonathan leaned forward a fraction of an inch as he recognized her to be Ava Garcia. His eyebrows arched in surprise as she incapacitated the drunken idiot in a second's time. She was bent over him and obstructing Jonathan's view of the scene, but he saw her unload the man's handgun and knock him unconscious. She stood gracefully, stepping over the unconscious man and moving on the way she'd been going.

He leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed in thought. The whole exchange was startling, and would have been curious no matter what. After all, how many teenage girls could take down a 170-something pound adult male that quickly and brush it off? Either Ava Garcia had a karate-master doppelganger, or she was more than she pretended to be. Jonathan could easily accept the second option. There was something in her eyes that was wise and secretive, something that couldn't be hidden from someone like Jonathan Crane. He mused over this slowly, wondering what to think about her.

_**'I like her.'** _Scarecrow piped up.

'_Of course you do._' Crane snapped.

**_'What? How many barely-legal chicks do you know that do that?'_**

_'None. I don't assosciate with children.'_

**_'Would you call that a child?_**' Scarecrow snorted.

Jonathan paused.

**_'She looked like she was having fun.'_** Scarecrow said quietly.

_'You'd be the expert on fun, I suppose.'_ Jonathan replied bitterly.

**_'I'm just sayin', Jonny, maybe our girl's got more goin' on than we thought she did.'_**

_'I wouldn't be surprised.'_

**_'We should get closer.'_** Scarecrow proposed.

_'You just want to have sex with her.'_

**_'True. But wouldn't you love to know what's goin' on in that chick's mind?'_**

_'I do think she seems...intruiging.'_

**_'And you know she's hot.'_**

_'She's attractive.'_

**_'It's settled.'_**

Shutting the door to her bedroom, Ava slid to her knees beside her bed. Neatly, she reached underneath and took out a cedar box, pulling it onto her lap. Pushing the lid off, she tugged the stranger's Glock out of the waistband of her jeans and dropped it in. It fell amongst several switchblades, a shard of a broken beer bottle, a torn wallet, and the magazine from another gun. She smiled fondly at her collection before closing the box and shoving it back under her bed. Standing and scratching the back of her head, she stretched, back arching. The face of the clock beside her bed told her that it was 11 p.m. and that she was too tired for her own good. She began pulling her clothes off, tossing them to the ground and letting herself fall back into the covers of her bed in only a pair of black panties.

She rolled over into her blankets and slapped a button on the panel beside her bed, dousing the room in darkness. The highlights of her body under the sheets were illuminated only by the neon of the alarm on the nightstand as she curled tighter against herself, drifting slowly, fading, until she was pulled under and was asleep.

In her subconcious mind, images were pulled from smoke and she shivered under her sheets at the chill of them. The blue of the doctor's eyes cracked thickly like arctic ice shifting under her feet as she lost her grip and stumbled down. His hands clamped against her biceps, her bare back scraping against the rough brick of a wall. Her head bent back involuntarily as she laughed, lips split wide in a grin at the pressure of his nails digging into her soft skin. Fading in and out, Ava felt at once fierce lips against hers and the raw chill of scratches down her back. Kissing back in a violent haste, she barely opened her eyes to see that she was being held in a vicelike grip by a man she couldn't see. She knew, though, who it was. It wasn't in her to care. She twisted her hands in his hair, passionate and hard, and as she felt something sharp,  
she jolted up in her bed, sheets aside, panting.

A thought ran through her mind. Did I just dream about my shrink? Someone I've just met? Her face was burning. She fell back against her pillows, closing her eyes and pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. She wasn't surprised. He was gorgeous and intelligent, and he gave her a slight feeling of unease.  
It was enticing, Ava would be the first to acknowlege that. But how old was he? What would the mayor think? Her lips twisted up at the corners. Not like she gave a good goddamn. She could imagine the headlines now. The absolute scandal that would wrack pretentious Gotham socialites upon learning that the mayor's oldest daughter hooked up with the city's top psychologist. She laughed because it sounded so ridiculous that anyone could care about something so entirely irrelevant, but there was Gotham for you. The wealthy need to be entertained. Nuzzling her cheek into her pillow, Ava squeezed her eyes shut and slipped away into the darkness of real sleep.

She awoke in the damp grass, four feet from a busy highway. Blinking slowly, she sat up. Her spine popped as she stretched her sleepy muscles, squinting in the bright light of day. It wasn't the first time. She groaned at herself and stood, finding some comfort in the fact that she had dressed herself before venturing outside in her sleep state. There had been times when she'd forgotten to do that and woken up on the neighbor's porch swing in panties and an undershirt. Cracking her knuckles, she glanced right, then left, then right, and sprinted across the asphalt. Missing the last car by several seconds, she stumbled to a stop, giggling, hands on her knees. She stood straight and cracked her neck, glancing at the sun to guess at the time. She assumed it was about one in the afternoon.

"Fuck. What did I do this time?" She murmured, wandering alongside the highway towards her house. The next turn on the right off the highway lead into the woods and the mansion that was nestled there. Private and flashy all at the same time. Her hands skimmed the pockets of the jacket and jeans, finding in her back left pocket a shard of glass from what looked like a beer bottle and appeared to have dried blood on it. She raised an eyebrow and slipped it back into her pocket, making a face and trekking onward. Rocks crunched beneath her boots as she got closer to the Garcia house. She yawned and ran her fingers through her hair, patting down her pockets once more to realize she didn't have a key on her. Similarly, she realized that the mayor wouldn't be home,  
and nor would her sister. She groaned softly to herself, thinking that it was just her luck.

She came up to the house, sighing as she wandered around the yard to the back of the house. Dragging a chair from the patio, she aligned it with one of the lower story windows and hoisted herself up, stiff muscles aching as she grasped the dirty top of the window frame. She strained for a moment before swinging a leg up onto the sloped roof above the window and rolling herself up on it.  
Refusing to look down, she crawled on her knees to her window. Knowing it was unlocked, she slipped her fingers under the small crack and forced it open. She'd taken the screen out long ago, and she crawled inside.

Rolling onto her bed from the window, she fell flat, letting her arms fall beside her. She sighed heavily, chest rising slowly. She wished she knew what she did at night.


	3. Rev 22:20

Chapter Three: Rev 22:20 **_"Don't be aroused by my confession, unless you don't give a good goddamn about redemption"_**

* * *

Jonathan Crane was in the basement of Arkham Asylum. It was Tuesday, and he had an appointment with the mayor's daughter shortly.  
Currently, he turned his attention to the woman who lay, barely concious, on a cold metal table, her wrists, ankles, and abdomen secured with thick leather straps. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickered with a buzz, dimly lighting the dank basement. Everything was sterile to the point of discomfort, but it still felt dirty. Jonathan held his black leather bound journal in his left hand and neatly wrote in it with his right, filling in information on a blank page.

Test Subject : Kaitlin McConnell

Age : 23

Gender : Female

Phobias : Nyctophobia, Necrophobia, & Nosocomephobia

First Trial:

Given 10ccs, injected in upper left bicep. Results came on less quickly than when inhaled. Subject screamed and attempted to break free of her bindings. Subject afterwards mentioned having been unable to see and instead invisioning corpses of deceased family members.

He finished the neat scrawl, clicking his pen and closing the notebook over it and setting it on a steel rolling table beside a used syringe and an assortment of peculiar items which included a scalpel, a small tarantula in a miniature enclosure, a pair of headphones attatched to an MP3 player, a blindfold, a package of needles in varying sizes, and a bottle of vodka. Glancing at a clock that barely hung from the white brick walls, Jonathan pushed his hair back and left the room, footsteps echoing menacingly while the girl on the table quietly whispered incomprehensible words. As he closed the door behind him, Jonathan turned to one of the men standing outside it and instructed him to get the woman in 10 minutes, give her a shot from the syringe in the cabinet, and drive her home. The burly man nodded curtly in understanding as his boss turned and left.

With seven minutes until his scheduled appointment with the Garcia girl, Crane slid into the leather chair behind his desk. Vaguely, he considered what to ask.  
Psychiatric evaluations of perfectly sane young women were not his passion, not even remotely in his interests. What was an interest of his was the $5,500 per session that the mayor was paying him. It payed to get payed. If he was going to bullshit his way through fake therapy, he could make it interesting for himself. He was curious about whatever it was making an eighteen year old beat the hell out of middle aged men in the middle of the night. Scarecrow scratched at the insides of his mind. The psychopath in her had brought out his own with a ferocity. Scarecrow pleaded to talk to her.

_'I can't let you do that.'_

**_'Come on, Jonny, she'll love me.'_** Scarecrow bargained.

_'You could hurt her. You know your temper.'_

_'**Why would I hurt her? Hell, I like her!'**_

_'I don't trust you.'_ Crane growled.

**_'I'm your only friend. You gotta trust me._'** Scarecrow pleaded.

_'I don't want you screwing this up for me.'_

**_'I've been there for you, give me this one.'_**

_'Promise me you won't ruin this.'_

_**'I won't ruin anything.**'_ He affirmed.

Ava rapped sharply on the door, wondering if she should be embarrassed that she'd actually dressed up for her psychiatrist. Dressed up may have been an exaggeration, but compared to her usual attire, it was a step in the other direction. She had on tall black suede high heels, her legs partially covered by shredded black tights. She had black denim shorts that were low on her hips, and a long coal colored sweater. Her platinum hair hung in a loose braid over her left shoulder. She felt awkward without her leather jacket or combat boots, but confident in her appearance. Naomi had arched her dark eyebrows high when she'd seen her sister, remarking that she looked like 'some kind of action hero pornstar'. Dr. Crane opened the door to his office, inviting her in. She was almost his height in the heels, she noticed. Almost eye level with him. She sank onto the sofa, smiling sweetly and crossing her legs slowly. Scarecrow, who was in control of Dr. Crane eyed her, twitchy.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Garcia?" He asked politely, in his best impersonation of Jonathan Crane.

"I'm quite well, doctor. I had a nice night last night. I can't complain." Absently, she stroked her middle finger up her thigh. Scarecrow's fingers rapped against the desk.

**_'Can I, please?'_**

_'Don't ruin this.'_

**_'Look at her. We both know she won't mind. Please.'_**

Dr. Crane said nothing to his counterpart.

Ava broke the silence.

"How about you?" She asked.

Scarecrow stood, walking to lean against the front of the heavy desk, legs crossed at the ankles. Ava admired how well dressed he seemingly always was. He wore a white dress shirt,  
top three buttons undone, and a black waistcoat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows.

"There's something I need help with, actually." He said cooly. He held out his right hand to her.

"Hmm?" She asked, taking it. Her heart pounded as he tightened his grip and pulled her to her feet. In the stilettos, she stumbled a fraction. He steadied her with a hand on her waist. "What's that?" She asked breathlessly. His lips twitched up in a smirk as a rose color tinted her face. He leaned down just enough that he caught her lips with his. She reacted immediately, half dizzy with excitement. Her mouth locked against his as she pressed closer to him. Letting go of her hand, both of his roamed down her back to grip her ass tightly, forcing a small gasp from her. His tongue touched hers slightly as they kissed hard, and she bit his lower lip. Jonathan was completely bewildered as Scarecrow moved him, violently pulling her sweater off over her head.

_'What the hell?!'_

**_'This is what we wanted, Jon. All three of us, obviously.'_**

They both paused a moment to admire Ava's tanned skin and full chest in a practically transparent lace bra, black and tight, holding her up deliciously.  
She reached back to unhook it, dropping it to the floor. Reaching back around, she grinned at him as her long fingers undid the buttons of his waistcoat slowly. She was practically trembling,painted nails slipping against the last button as a shiver ran through her. She was always beautiful, but this was the first time she had seemed so alive. No, the second time. The first time was when she incapacitated a middle aged thug as he watched from his window. She had looked like this then, too. Her eyes sparkled and it drove Scarecrow and Jonathan both mad. With her shirt off, the men could admire her and see that she had blacked out spades tattooed on each shoulder. She slipped off his waistcoat and wasted no time simply ripping the shirt open. She smirked guiltily when he arched an eyebrow.

"The waistcoat was too nice to rip." She said. Her chest rising and falling quickly, she leaned against Jonathan Crane, bare breasts pressed to his chest. A shiver ran through him, making her lip curl into a satisfied smile. She shifted a leg between his, pleased by the thick bump in his pants. His eyes widened a fraction and he fisted a hand through her hair, taking her mouth with his and raking his fingertips down her back. She pressed harder to him, her body curving, hands touching every part of his chest and sliding downwards as he kissed her.

A sound echoed through the building. A high, agonized shriek of pure fright, panic, terror. Ava and Scarecrow-or was it Jonathan?-paused, lips barely touching. They watched each others' eyes. A crash sounded, like steel against linoleum. Ava leaned back slightly, feeling with a resigned irritation that they should investigate before taking things further. Crane nodded reluctantly and she bent to grab her sweater, leaving the bra on the floor. As she bent, Crane stood straight, brushing up against her and she practically moaned at the contact. She pulled the sweater over her head and turned. Locking eyes with him, she pulled him down to her level and kissed him intensely enough to put stars in both of their eyes.

"When we get back..." she trailed off.

"Harder than you could imagine, Miss Garcia." He said curtly, smirking and pulling his shirt back on.

Ava followed Dr. Crane down the clean hallways. He had a purposeful walk (it was Jonathan in control) and he seemed to know exactly where the noise had come from. They stepped into an elevator, and as it slid downwards, Ava couldn't help but let her eyes wander over him. His hair was ruffled a bit, and it pleased Ava that anyone who saw them might draw the right conclusions. Some part of her wanted them to know. Jonathan put a hand on her waist as the elevator let them out, bringing her down a hallways whose fluorescent lighting flickered and buzzed. Ava was curiously surprised, this part of the building was shabby and suspicious where the rest was a shining example of modern. Grimly, Dr. Crane opened a heavy door and cautiously stepped inside. Ava wondered if she should be afraid of what she saw. There was a large-ish man lying unconscious on the floor in between rows of medical gurneys, a pool of scarlet around his head like a gruesome halo. A small, dirty blonde girl was curled in a fetal position, rocking against a cabinet on the opposite wall. Instead of fear or confusion, Ava felt a very placid sense of interest, and a fair level of understanding. She was a test subject, obviously. There were marks on her wrists where restraints had been. She looked terrified, and exhausted.

Ava simply leaned against the door frame and folded her arms across her chest. It was frigid in the basement. She waited patiently for Dr. Crane to resolve the situation.

**_'Told you she was a good one, Jonny._'** Scarecrow whispered.

_'Does she even care about this girl?'_ Jonathan asked, intrigued.

**_'She only cares that we were interrupted.'_**

_'Then we're on the same page.'_

Jonathan walked over to his unconscious assistant, checking for a pulse on the big mans' wrist. Satisfied, he nudged the guy with the toe of his shoe. The man awoke, blinking dumbly in a daze.

"What the hell happened?" Jonathan asked with an icy tone and a gesture to the girl.

The man stuttered.

"I-I uh, I guess I used the wrong drugs, Doc, I don't...I don't.." Jonathan's eyes scanned the room. The man was right, he hadn't given her what he'd intended.  
Instead of a sleep aid to ease the transport of the young woman, he'd injected her with a relatively huge quantity of the fear toxin. Stupidly, he'd done this after undoing her restraints. The girl must've hurled the gurney at him in a panic and knocked him unconscious. Jonathan rolled his eyes.

"Clean this up. Deal with it. I have something to be doing." He snapped at the man. "You can keep your job as long as this doesn't happen again."  
The big guy nodded fervently, thinking with relief that the doctor must be having quite a good day and he could have just as easily ended up drugged in an alleyway. He glanced to the door where Jonathan Crane walked out, noticing for the first time a tanned blonde woman, barely older than a teenager but with cold eyes and long legs. Crane's hand touched her lower back as the two of them left. The man repressed a choked laugh, almost thanking her. The woman may have saved him another day.


	4. Naughty Naughty

Chapter Four: Naughty Naughty_** "Definitely not an angel, but I'm not that evil, you know. I'm just so addicted to beautiful people."**_

* * *

The door to Crane's office locked with a heavy click as it shut. Crane eyed Ava, slightly wary that she wouldn't be in the mood anymore. Extinguishing his concern, he saw that that was far from the truth. Her cheeks were flushed and her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh, her eyes searching his for the same reason. He stepped close to her,  
her back to the hard, cool door. Her pupils dilated as he touched her, her back arching into him. Impatience rolled through her like a tidal wave and she ached to make a move.

"You're certain that didn't put you off?" Jonathan murmured quietly. He was a lot of things, but not a rapist. He wanted to assure that she was still in the game. Scarecrow didn't care if she consented, but he wasn't in control.

"I'll open up because you're my doctor-" she giggled slightly at her accidental pun, "but not a lot doesn't turn me on. The blood..." Her lips twitched into a smile and she shrugged.  
"Can't really help it. I like it." She whispered, lips against his throat.

'Jesus Christ, Jonny. She's a winner. Fuck her!' Scarecrow hissed to Jonathan. He ran his fingertips over her shoulder, tugging on her sweater gently. She smiled, turning around and pulling the garment up over her toned shoulders, tossing it to the floor beside her previously discarded bra. Back to Jonathan, she bent, unbuttoning her shorts and sliding them down her long legs as slowly as she could. Dr. Crane's composure chipped and cracked at the way she was positioned. He ached to be in control of her, he couldn't be at her mercy. As she stepped out of the shorts, he pulled her back by her hips, grinding his against her ass. She leaned back against his chest, biting her lip. Turning around, she ripped his shirt open again, pulling it off him entirely and tossing it on his desk. She ran her fingernails down his torso admiringly. His skin was very fair, and underneath there was slight muscle definition. He looked good, and she yearned to see more. Her lips found his again and she licked along his lower lip while she unbuttoned his pants and slid them down. His expensive boxers were stretched from a barely concealed erection. She kissed him hard, running her fingers through his dark hair as his hands slipped under her panties, grasping her ass.  
He pulled them down, roughly, over her legs as she stepped out of them, kicking off her heels. She felt small without them, much shorter than him. Trading positions in a swift motion, he lifted her onto his desk and kissed her throat, running his hands down her body. Trembling, she grasped his shoulders.  
"Fuck me." She whispered. Ripping his boxers down, he lined himself up and pushed forward into her in a smooth motion, forcing a moan from her. Her nails dug into his skin, whimpering as he thrusted rhythmically.

His hands held tightly to her hips, pulling her to meet every thrust, fingertips digging into her skin hard enough to leave marks. She clenched around him at the right times, making him gasp and growl, lips close to her ear, making her shiver against him. She scratched his back, nails trailing up his smooth skin to leave jagged red marks of possession. She grinned as his hands clenched against her soft skin, gripping her dominantly. She kissed him fiercly, moaning against his lips and stroking her fingertips along his jawline as his tongue ran over her lower lip. She wove her fingers through his dark hair, holding tightly as his thrusting picked up pace. Her legs were spread around his hips, his chest to hers, their hands moving everywhere but never leaving the other. He pushed against her slowly, hard, driving deep inside of her. She gasped against his lips and clenched her fingers tightly in his hair.

"Harder." She whispered breathlessly. Raising an eyebrow, he couldn't resist the command and thrusted into her. She squeezed tightly around him, making him growl in her ear, low and sexual. The sound alone burned through her with arousal and possession and pride. He moved faster, deeper, until she dug her fingernails into his skin, practically screaming with relief and pleasure as the power built up between her hips broke, flooding through her in a rush. She tightened around him, hard and suddenly, making him gasp and come to his own release inside her. She leaned back on the desk after he pulled out, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breathing. Surprising her, he put a hand on her throat and kissed her slowly, slight smirk on his lips.  
Pulling his boxers back up, he held out a hand to help her off the desk. She took it, smiling graciously and began to pull her clothes back on, smiling as she caught a glance at his ruffled hair and ripped shirt. She almost hoped someone would see her leaving. When she was fully dressed once again, she stepped into her heels and made half an attempt to smooth down her clothes.

"I'll see you soon, Dr Crane." She said with a smirk. She shut the door behind her, walking out to the car and its hired driver with flushed cheeks and messy hair. She slid into the back, smiling and pulling the box of Camels from the pocket of her shorts. Flicking open her lighter, she lit the cigarette and rolled down the back window, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes as the car drove out of the lot.

"Good appointment, Miss Ava?" Her father's driver asked, one eyebrow arched in the rearview mirror. She blushed with a start, almost dropping her cigarette on her lap.

"Quite...I think therapy is really working out for me." She grinned back at him. The older man gave a choked laugh, turning his eyes back to the road.

Ava knocked on her sister's bedroom door, unable to remove the mischevious smile from her lips. Her sister opened her door sleepily, dark hair in messy braids.

"Did I wake you up?" Ava asked.

"Just a nap." Naomi mumbled. "Come in. How was your appointment?" She asked, following her sister to sit cross legged on the bed.

"Remember when I was joking about having a hot psychiatrist?" Ava asked, arching an eyebrow. Naomi nodded slowly. "I should be a fuckin' fortune teller." Ava grinned casually.

"He was hot?" Naomi asked, stretching. Ava nodded, smirking slightly as she chewed her lower lip. Naomi smiled. "Are you hitting on him?"

"Bit more than that. I may or may not have had sex with him." Ava stretched back, lying down on the bed. Naomi choked on a sip of water from the bottle on the nightstand.

"What?!" Her eyes widened. "I thought you were supposed to be-doing psychiatrist stuff?!"

"It was sufficient therapy. Physical therapy, anyway." Ava snorted. "It was...fuck, it was impressive." She grinned at her little sister.

"Oh my God, Ava. What's his name? What does he look like? How is he in bed?" Her questions tumbled over each other. Ava giggled.

"Bed...more like...desk." She lifted the edges of her sweater to show her sister pale purple bruises on her hips and stomach. Tugging up the back of her sweater as she turned around, she

displayed long red scratches on her skin. She readjusted her sweater.

"I hope he has some, too." Naomi winked.

"You can bet. As for your previous questions, mmm. He's tall. Kinda thin, dark hair and blue eyes. Well dressed...God, sexy clothes."

"Score." Naomi said. Ava grinned in agreement.

"I'll let you go back to sleeping, love. I'll see you later." She smiled lovingly at her little sister and slid off the bed.

At 1 in the morning, Ava was at a coffee shop. Gotham's downtown streets were only slightly less crowded than during the daylight hours. It really was a nighttime city,  
the sky's twinkling stars invisible above the streetlights and glow. She was reclined just outside the shop, ankles crossed on a wrought iron table with a book in her hand and a dully lit cigarette in the other. She had a black coffee beside her and read thoughtfully, listening to the hum of the traffic. She paged through, pressing the cigarette in between her lips and inhaling deeply. As she lowered her hand, she leaned back against the chair and let her heavy eyelids shut for a moment. The cigarette slipped from between her fingers, finding its way through the gaps in the table and landing, embers first, on the exposed skin of her inner thigh.

Her eyes shot open as she looked down, reaching slowly to remove the cigarette as it seared away at her skin. Her head tilted to the side, examining her skin as she stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray. Her leg bore a red semicircle that festered with the pain. She frowned slightly at it, drowsy and numb. She stood, shakily, shoving the book into the bag she had brought with her and stumbling slightly as she rushed down the sidewalk. The further she walked, the more coordinated she walked, but there was a slight shuffle to her steps, scuffing her boots on the pavement. Reaching an alleyway, she slipped into it, bowing her head and breathing deeply as she waited. She dug her hand into her purse, groping around until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a switchblade that she carried for protection. Not that it was generally necessary. Then again, it wasn't necessarily for protection. Back pressed to the brick, she toyed with the knife, flicking open its blade as a middle aged woman rounded the corner. Ava grinned, her eyes glittering in the dark.

When she woke up in her own bed with the knife in her hand, it was 6pm the next day.

She arched an eyebrow at her fist closed around the knife handle. Leaning over, she examined it. There was blood, again, dried in a smudged pattern. She'd made a halfassed attempt to clean it, she noticed. That was a new one. She sighed heavily, the heavy weight of her worry lingering in her stomach. The blood pulsed through her head, grinding away at the headache residing in her temples. She raked her hands through her hair, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. A desire to twitch, to fidget, to do something came over her. She picked up her barely used phone from the nightstand. Clicking on the phone, she clicked through her contacts. She tapped her foot against the floor, eyeing the glowing phone as it highlighted one contact in particular: Dr. Crane.


	5. Cold Blooded

Chapter 5 : Cold Blooded

_**"Can't trust a cold blooded man. Girl, don't you lie in his bed.,**_

_**You can't trust a cold blooded man- he'll love you and leave you for dead."**_

Jonathan Crane sat behind his desk, icy eyes focused intently on the pages spread out before him. He wondered why he was so interested in her. Why was he so fascinated by a girl who should be nothing more than a statistic? It wasn't the sex, he'd been curious before then. It wasn't that she was pretty. Plenty of pretty women had approached him, unsurprisingly, and he usually wasn't interested. He refused to become emotional about the girl, but from his professional standpoint he was entitled to his curiosity. She was his patient, technically his responsibility. He had the right to be looking through her files, no matter why. He flipped over a page. Her mugshot grinned up at him from her rap sheet, making him raise an eyebrow.

She held up her letterboard with pride, grinning from ear to ear, an eyebrow arched in drunken cockiness. Her hair was messy, blonde strands over her face and shoulders. She appeared to only be wearing a bra. The rap sheet read that she was only sixteen at the time of her arrest for indecent exposure. Jonathan shifted uncomfortably at the way she looked, that is, much older than sixteen. He shuffled the papers, pushing that one underneath the others.

Something stuck out to him. He froze, looking closer.

Birth Name : Estrella Brianne Zsasz

He furrowed his brow, plucking that page out of the mess on the desk and searching for one he'd seen before. Finding it, he laid them side by side,

curious eyes flicking back and forth between her birth certificate and her adoption forms. She'd been adopted at the age of eleven by Gotham's dear mayor Anthony Garcia, who had one daughter previously, born by his late wife. A daughter who was two years younger than the adopted one. None of this was a surprise to Jonathan Crane. He was

aware that she'd been adopted, and even if he hadn't known from her papers it would've been obvious to anyone. Anthony Garcia was vaguely Hispanic, with dark eyes, hair, and skin. Ava was tan, but decidedly Caucasian. Her hair was a near white blonde, and her eyes a pale green. She was her adoptive father's polar opposite.

What Dr. Crane hadn't been aware of was her birth name. Zsasz. Achingly familiar. He glared at the paper before turning to the heavy desktop computer

beside him, typing the surname Zsasz into Arkham's directory. He let it load while he neatened the papers, thinking that he must've known a Zsasz. It wasn't a common name...

'_Scarecrow_.' Jonathan called on his other half hesitantly.

'_**What?**_' Scarecrow's mental whisper was drowsy and irritated.

_'Do we know someone named Zsasz?'_

_**'Zsasz...Victor?'**_

_'Victor. Fuck, of course._' Jonathan thought, turning to face the buzzing computer.

As expected, the archive had drawn up the photo of a patient from years ago. Victor Zsasz. The man's snarling face dominated the flickering screen with hungry, sunken eyes and tally mark scars on his skin. His hair was the same shade of white-blonde as Ava's. Jonathan put his hand on the computer's mouse, middle finger rolling the scroll wheel down the page as he read thoughtfully.

_After losing all of his money gambling with the Penguin (see directory), Victor Zsasz fell into a deep depression and hopelessness, attempting to commit suicide_

_at the Gotham Bridge. Encountered by a homeless man who attempted to assault Mr. Zsasz, he commited his first murder. When interviewed later for psychiatric evaluation, Mr. Zsasz stated that the man was "sub-human", and that he was "saving him". Mr. Zsasz created a cut on his arm, beginning to tally as he "liberated" people from their emptiness._

_When taken into Arkham, he had over 143 scars on varying parts of his body, including his face. It is known that Victor Zsasz had an affair with one woman before murdering her almost a year later. It is also known that this woman had a child, a girl who was put up for adoption immediately after birth. The child's whereabouts and adoption records are unavailable. Zsasz is currently undergoing treatment in Arkham Asylum._

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, shock written on his face. It took a great deal to shock Jonathan Crane, but this had done it. Even Scarecrow was at a loss for words.

Almost.

_**'So our little girl is the illegitimate daughter of a fucking psycho?'**_

_'It seems that Ava is his daughter, yes.'_

'Good thing she didn't get his looks. Don't think I'd want to fuck her if she looked like that guy.'

_'I appreciate your colorful commentary, but I think there are more pressing questions to be asked.' _Jonathan said, tone clipped and quiet.

_**'Like what, Doctor?**_' Scarecrow snapped snidely_._

_'She probably has no idea that her father is a serial killer.'_

_**'So? Are you saying we should tell her?'**_

_'I don't know. What do you suggest?'_

'I suggest we tell her. And I suggest we let her meet 'im.'

_'Why in the hell would we do that?'_

_**'Because it'd be fucking brilliant. Imagine how many different ways it could go, Jonny! Think of it as an experiment.'**_

_'She's not our experiment.'_

_**'I didn't say we should strap her to the table and fucking inject her. It's a different kind of experiment. She won't get hurt**__.'_

Jonathan thought for a moment, about to respond to his dark side when the phone in his pocket buzzed against his thigh, startling him out of his silent reverie. Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the black device, is blue mini screen lit up with a name. Ava Garcia Calling, it read. He arched an eyebrow, half-hoping for a snide

comment from Scarecrow. Scarecrow, however, was just waiting to see what would happen.

Jonathan opened the phone, raising it to his ear.

"I'm glad you called. There's something I think you'd like to know." He said, drumming the tips of his fingers on the desk.

"Oh?" She asked softly.

"I think it'd benefit us both if you could come to the asylum to talk about it. Tonight."

"Now?" She asked with surprise.

"Mmmhm." Jonathan responded.

"I, uhm...alright. I'll come over. See you in a minute."

* * *

Ava climbed behind the wheel of her car, hands trembling slightly. She wondered if he actually had something he wanted to say to her, or if this was a different kind of appointment entirely. She set her shoulders back, inhaling deeply and tying her hair up behind her head. Pulling out of the driveway, the car rolled down the road as she thought on it. She wore a ribbed black tank top, black denim shorts and her combat boots. Under her clothes was a matching set of deep scarlet lace underwear.

She drove in silence, down winding streets and highways under the sky as it faded to nighttime in Gotham. Her car rolled through the heavy iron gates, and she slowed to a stop, her tires crunching on the gravel. She jerked the key out of the ignition, climbing out and shutting the door swiftly as she felt a fluttery tightness low in her stomach. The car made a soft, high beep as it locket itself, and she stuffed her keys into her back pocket before walking out to the front office of Arkham.

"Miss Garcia! You aren't scheduled today. We're closing soon." The pretty, dark skinned receptionist said with surprise.

"I know, Felicia, it's a short-term meeting. I just have to talk about some stuff with Dr. Crane." She smiled kindly and sidestepped a large security guard in all white, walking cheerfully down the hallway towards his office. Arkham had several wings, and one was designated solely for the offices of psychiatrists. She felt thankful that she didn't have to walk past the inmates. She never had, but she imagined it'd be a bit like in Silence Of The Lambs. Unsettling. She stood in front of Dr. Crane's door and raised a hand, knocking gently.

"Come in." She heard his clear voice through the heavy wood, and opened the door, walking in to sit on the sofa across from him.

_**'Oh, look, Jonny, she wore some nice lingerie for us.**_' Scarecrow murmured, directing the doctor's gaze to the bit of blood-colored lace that peeked out from her tank top.

Jonathan bit back a response and glanced down at he papers, still on his desk.

"You're adopted." He stated flatly, looking for her response. She didn't bat an eye, but one eyebrow twitched upward.

"Yes." She waited patiently.

"Do you know who your parents are?" He asked.

"No. A whore and her client, I presume. A teenager and her boyfriend. My guess is as good as yours." She said brightly.

"Actually, it isn't. I was looking through your files, and...I think I know your father." He said. Her expression didn't waver, though she crossed her legs and leaned back.

"I don't have a father. I don't need one." She said gently.

"I don't believe you need him, especially now knowing who he is. But I was wondering if you would like to meet him."

"That seems...like a waste of time, Dr. Crane." She smiled wryly.

"Not quite. Your birth father is an inmate here." He said coldly, watching her eyes for a sign of fear in the knowledge that she was the child of someone who was criminally insane.

She remained silent, mouth open very slightly, eyes surprised.

"You...you think I should meet him...why?" She asked breathlessly.

"To get answers." He said softly, a smirk on his lips. He saw her swallow, eyes downcast.

"Okay. When?" She asked, sudden determined glow in her eyes.

"Now." He said smoothly.


	6. Power & Control

Chapter Six : Power & Control

_**"A human vulnerability doesn't mean that I am weak"**_

* * *

Arkham's doors were locked, its employees in their cars, hurrying to leave. Those that remained were security guards in all white, lounging at desks behind monitors, uninterested in any actual surveillance duties. PhDs in apathy, all of them.

Ava and Jonathan emerged from his office as the clocks reached the hour. Stepping out into the hallway, Jonathan began to lead the way to the opposite ward.

"He's in the Secure Wing. It's not my intention to frighten you," he lied, "but he may be incredibly violent. Even upon learning that you're his daughter. He's always been

unpredictable, to my recollection."

"Can you tell me about him? I'd rather to know why he's here before...meeting him." She said quietly.

"He was a serial killer. He killed a great number of people, mostly young women. He...kept tally marks. Scars, on his skin, one for every murder." He murmured. Her footsteps stopped abruptly, and he turned around to examine her. Her pulse had quickened, her lips slightly parted, and a strange flicker of anger was residing in her pretty eyes. He walked over to her, waiting.

"My father is Victor Zsasz?" She whispered softly, disgust in her voice, not looking Jonathan in the eyes. He gave a slow nod. Her chest rose at her sudden intake of air, her fists curled tightly.

"Do you still wish to meet him?" Jonathan asked, hoping she wouldn't back down, and somehow knowing she wouldn't. She nodded seriously, looking up into his eyes.

"Yeah, I'd still like to meet him." She said, her voice hard.

Jonathan nodded, a slight smile on his face. He put his hand to the small of her back, leading her down the white hallway. She didn't want to seem weak, or

afraid, but as they turned down a hallway that was lined on both sides with glass cells, she involuntarily moved closer to her doctor. He noted this with interest. Looking down

at the blonde girl next to him, he felt warmth in his stomach, and where her shoulder brushed him it burned pleasantly. Several inmates, older men, were leering at her from

behind the thick glass of their cells. He felt a twinge of possessiveness, and was strangely glad to see that her eyes held a cold warning for any of the ones who dare whistle

or speak in her direction.

They turned into the intersecting hallway, going right. Ava breathed a slight sigh of relief to have solid walls on both sides of her. With his hand on her back,

Jonathan felt her muscles relax.

"Did you ever meet him?" She asked, breaking their peaceful silence.

"I did. He was my patient, when I first started here. I'd all but forgotten about that."

"Do you remember now?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Rude. Angry. He seemed to do things entirely at random. He was...startling, to meet for the first time. Because of the scars." He said thoughtfully. Ava nodded.

"I'm nothing like him." She said, almost uncertainly.

"No."

They stood outside a door, labeled only with the number "312". Like everything else, it was plain, clinical white. Ava's breathing was slow, her pulse thumping

through her throat a bit harder than usual. She wanted some kind of comfort, she wanted to run and leave. At the same time, she wanted to break down the door and tell him

he didn't deserve to pass on his genetics. She wasn't sure what she wanted. She looked up at Jonathan to find his striking eyes already on her. She swallowed and nodded,

resisting an urge to step behind him or move closer. Instead, she watched as he pulled a keyring from the pocket of his coat and found the one marked 312. He slid it

into the keyhole and twisted, a soft click practically echoing through their tense silence. Keeping his hand still, he found Ava's eyes again.

"If something goes wrong, I have a sedative in my pocket. I'll inject him if he does anything extreme." He murmured. She nodded seriously. He swung the door

open and it gave a soft, metallic creak. Taken by sudden determination, she entered the room first, keeping her eyes flat and ignoring the goosebumps that erupted on her

mostly exposed skin. The room had to be below sixty degrees. She stood crosswise from the rusted metal bed, shaking hands stuffed in her pockets. Dr. Crane followed her closely,

shutting the door behind him. He stood beside Ava, clearing his throat.

The man on the bed sat upright, grinning from ear to ear at his visitors. As Crane had warned, his appearance was startling-to say the least. His eyes were sunken,

cold, and his blonde hair was graying. He had slight stubble, and almost all of his visible skin had warped, purple scars. One even marked his face, over his left eyebrow. It was a

wide talley mark set of five, the diagonal slash of the fifth mark slightly longer than the rest. His hands were scarred and calloused, with an orange wristband on one wrist,

identifying him as a Secure Wing patient.

"Doctor Crane, is it?" He asked suddenly, loud and with a slight rasp to his voice. "I haven't seen you in years. Who's this? Is she yours or did you bring her

just for me?" His voice lowered to a growl, sending a shiver of disgust up Ava's spine. She set her shoulders back, eyes burning. Jonathan gently touched her back, turning his

intense gaze on Zsasz.

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Zsasz. We come with news." Jonathan said, voice almost as chilling as Zsasz's. "This is Ava Garcia, she's a friend of mine." Zsasz looked her up and down, eyes roaming too much for the comfort of Jonathan or Ava.

"I'm your illegitimate daughter, congratulations." She said through her teeth.

"That's funny. You pick funny ones, Doc. I always liked girls with a sense of humor. Wouldn't have thought that was your type, though." He said warily.

"Not a joke, Mr. Zsasz." Jonathan said curtly. "Miss Garcia was the daughter of yours and a woman that you slept with."

"That don't sound like me, Doc." He rasped, manic grin returning to his chapped lips.

"You killed her later. After she had me. Does that sound like you?" Ava asked mockingly, her voice acidic.

"Girl, you and your doctor boyfriend may think this is a good prank, but I don't have no children. I'd've taken care of them as soon as it happened." He said with a dark smile.

"You have time now." She growled. "Flesh and fucking blood, unfortunately. Go for it."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, expecting almost anything but this. Her eyes burned and her fists were clenched tightly, knuckles paling. Half of him wanted to intervene, half of him

wanted deeply just to see how it would play out without him. He wished he wasn't emotionally invested. His mind's cogs were turning at the possibility of a million scenarios playing out beside

him, he felt like he was watching a movie. Suddenly, Zsasz lunged for Ava. His hands reached for her throat, and before he could wrap them around it, she'd snatched his wrists in a viselike grip. She head butted him suddenly, force driving him backwards. She released his wrists, raising her right leg to drive her heel into his solar plexus. Winded, he toppled onto the bed. Ava stood straighter, chest rising and falling with a look in her eyes that sent a chill down Jonathan's spine. He wondered what kind of chill this one was.

Ava grinned at her father, whose head had a large bruise beginning to form at his temple.

"You are my kid." He growled. His tone made her uneasy, running through her like wind. She unclenched her fists, her fingernails leaving marks on the insides of her palms.

"I'm nothing like you. You're reckless. You're disgusting. You're fucking delusional. I know who I am. And I am nothing like you." The words left her in a rush, low and shaking with her anger.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Victor stood, and Jonathan stepped closer, cold eyes on the man in front of him. Victor's empty eyes flickered between Jonathan and Ava.

"She is yours, isn't she? I don't feel very comfortable with you being with my...daughter, Doctor Crane." He gave them both a snakelike smile, failing to notice that Jonathan had edged

the syringe out of his pocket and slipped it into Ava's palm. She wrapped her fingers around it, breathing deeply. "In fact, as a new father, I-" his words were choked by the sudden force

of Ava slamming the syringe's needle deep into the side of his neck. She injected all of it, smoothly, and jerked it out in a swift movement. She stood, still, blood pumping in her

veins like electricity. Watching him fall to the floor in a heap with his eyes watching her, she smiled serenely. Then she brought the heel of her boot down on his outstretched hand, the

chilling crunch of his bones, making her heart beat faster. She turned to face Jonathan, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly loose. His fingers twitched, noticing she looked exhilirated.

"I think it's time for us to leave." Her voice shook, but no longer with fear. Jonathan nodded in understanding, holding open the door for her, and following her out. He locked

it behind them, and pocketed the keys. The moment his hand left his pocket, she'd grabbed the collar of his shirt and pressed her lips to his, sudden and intense.

_**'What the hell?'**_ Scarecrow asked.

_ 'I...have no idea.'_

_**'Looks like you found someone as fucked up as you.'**_

Jonathan was going to agree with the Scarecrow, but somehow got distracted, ripping the clip from her hair and holding her waist tightly as he kissed her back. After a moment, she pulled away, pupils dilated and heart pounding.

"I don't want to go home tonight." She whispered suggestively, voice low.

"I wasn't going to let you." He growled.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! You've been very kind and very insightful and I seriously appreciate it. If anyone was unaware, all my chapter titles are also song titles (you should listen to them ;)). Thank you to those of you who have followed and favorited. I adore you guys, you keep it going!**

**xx MikaMurha**


	7. Mz Hyde

Chapter Seven: Mz. Hyde

**_"Better beware, I go bump in the night,_**

**_Devil-may-care with a lust for life."_**

* * *

Jonathan shut the door to his apartment, half expecting Ava to jump him again. Instead, she stood beside him, eyebrows raised, looking around. Somehow, it wasn't what she'd expected. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but she was still taken aback. The apartment was gorgeous, modern and clean. The furniture was all black leather, the floor pale, sleek wood. One wall was dominated by wide-open windows, black sky peering in from the outside. There were sharp white bookshelves against the walls, every one filled with heavy-looking books. She'd been distracted, reading the spines of the books on one shelf-mostly psychology books-and she gave a slight start when Jonathan appeared

beside her, holding two short glasses filled with a clear liquid Ava assumed was vodka. She arched an eyebrow as he handed her one.

"But Doctor Crane, I'm underage." She said in mock horror, smile on her lips.

"Can't be the worst thing I've done." He said with quiet amusement, going to sit in a leather chair beside the window. She followed him, sitting carefully on the couch, curling her long legs under her as she sipped from her glass. She winced slightly at the taste, but relished the slight burn in her throat as she swallowed. She smiled.

"Speaking of the things you've done...I only ask because I'm curious. What was up with that whole...basement situation from a few days ago?"

"You're not worried about it, are you?" He asked, a wary sort of condescension in his tone. She scoffed quietly, sipping more vodka.

"No. I'm intrigued. Anyone who has underground experiments has to have some interesting motives. I'm just curious."

"As you concluded, it's an experiment. Working with a chemical compound I created. Seeing its effects on people." He expressed simply. She nodded thoughtfully, thinking back to the whimpering dirty blonde girl huddled in the corner of the basement.

"What does it do?" She asked. "I don't want to pry-don't feel obligated to say anything you don't want to." She said politely.

"It synthesizes fear."

"That's incredible." she paused. "The emotion itself?"

"It is part hallucinogen, it would seem that it brings on images frightening to the specific subject." He explained. He watched her, noticing that she seemed deep in thought.

"Are you looking for test subjects?" She asked, smiling slightly.

"Are you volunteering?" He murmured, leaning forward, slight incredulity in his eyes.

"Mmmmm...yes, I think I am." She grinned.

"As far as I've seen..." he began doubtfully, "My test subjects haven't found it enjoyable. At all."

"That's fine. I'm a sadomasochist anyway, right?" She said with a wink.

"We could experiment during your next appointment." He said, finishing his drink. Mentally, Scarecrow was ecstatic.

_**'Not only are we hitting that**__-'_ Scarecrow began, a mental whisper to his other half, _**'but she wants us to experiment on her. I told you things would look up for us**__._' Jonathan repressed a slight smile.

"Sounds good to me." She said softly. She set her glass down on an angular, pristine white coffee table. She chewed her lip slowly, wondering how to initiate what she so badly desired. She looked over at her doctor, who was watching her with amused eyes.

"Why'd you take me to see Zsasz tonight?" She asked, surprising herself.

"I wanted to see how you'd react." He admitted.

"Was my reaction sufficient?" She asked, giggling slightly.

"It was entirely surprising, to be honest." He said, shifting in his chair to move closer to her.

"What were you expecting?"

"Tears. Fear, or denial, or hysteria. Not violence." He smirked slightly. "The violence was a surprise." Ava smiled at this, chewing her lower lip.

"Violence is one of those things for me...like I mentioned before, in your office. It's like this love that I had that found its way into other aspects of my life. Sex, for instance." She admitted, with slight embarrassment. "It's...unconventional, I know." Jonathan watched her seriously, corner of his mouth twitching up. Scarecrow had been right to call their similarities. An odd feeling of comfort swept over him, and he found himself speaking.

"I'm the same way with fear." He said softly, watching her intently for a reaction. Her eyes opened slightly, and she looked up at him in surprise.

"Then I guess it makes sense for us to be where we are now." She murmured. "They sometimes go hand in hand."

"Tell me," he began, standing up, "do you prefer causing pain, or receiving it?" She stood, looking up at him with a suggestive smile.

"I like both." She admitted.

He ran his fingers down her back, feeling a familiar shiver run down his. He reached around her back, grasping her hair tightly in his fist. He tugged down, slightly, evoking a gasp from her. A playful smile curved her lips and a knowing look touched her eyes. She reached up, running her pointer finger along his jawline, lightly raking her nail over his skin. He kissed her fiercely, pulling her hair a little harder as she pressed against him. Her skin burned with excitement and she bit down on his lip, just hard enough to break through. A pinprick of blood blossomed and he arched an eyebrow, pausing. Guiltily, she smiled at him and pressed her lips back to his, tasting the salt-and-copper of his blood on her tongue. His hands glided down her back, digging his nails into her skin under her shirt. She pulled away, eyes focused intensely on his.

"Bedroom?" He whispered, meeting her gaze. She nodded, smirking. He led her down a short hallway that branched off the den, opening the door to a bedroom. A bed was opposite the door, against a wall that was entirely window. Traffic lights glowed through the darkness, the only light in the room, and Ava wondered how someone could sleep with them peering into the room. He shut the bedroom door behind him, closing the distance between them in two long strides. Scarecrow itched to take part, and for once, Jonathan allowed. Scarecrow took the wheel, practically growling as Ava ripped his shirt from his shoulders. He put his hands low on her hips and shoved her onto the bed, following suit and putting his knee in between her thighs. She smiled as he leaned down, kissing her viciously and grinding his hips against her. She practically moaned at the contact, the sudden spark that shot up from between her legs. Swiftly, she twisted her hips, flipping their position in her favor. She straddled him, confidence radiating from her flushed cheeks and sly smile. She pulled her shirt up and over her head, throwing it to the floor. His eyes hungrily crawled over her chest, the blood red lace that she filled out perfectly. For a moment his eyes flickered over to the open window and the apartment across the way, the crowded streets and open windows that could see them.

"I prefer it this way." She murmured. Her hands pinned his wrists as she bent low over him, rolling her hips and pressing into him slowly. He breathed deeply, knowing that he could break her grasp, but somehow loving the torture. Jonathan felt amused, feeling the Scarecrow under someone else's control. She tilted her head to the side and pressed her lips to his as slowly as she could. She moved her mouth against his, her tongue stroking his lower lip and finding his as she rocked her hips against his growing erection. Slowly, she shifted, kissing his jawline, and his throat. She felt his pulse against her lips, making her shiver. She kissed his collarbones and bare chest, his cool skin. She released his wrists and rocked back on her knees, moving to unzip his pants and pull them down, letting him kick them off onto the floor. She moved his boxers off, his member fully erect. Taking him by surprise, she shifted lower, gripping him and licking him slowly up and down. A shudder ran through him as he watched her with wide eyes. Placing her full lips around him, she lowered her head expertly, sucking slowly as she moved with steady pace. She felt him tensing beneath her and slowly pulled away, watching him with a smile. She bit her lower lip, teasingly squeezing her hand around him.

_**Why'd you have to pick a tease, Jon?**_Scarecrow growled.

_As I recall, you said you liked her._

She slipped off her shorts, tossing them to the floor. Her chest rose and fell with anticipation and she slowly removed the red lace thong, discarding it. All that remained was her bra as she slowly positioned herself over him. As painstakingly slowly as she'd done everything else so far, she lowered herself onto him, slight gasp escaping her as he pushed inside. A silent gasp came from Scarecrow, and he felt an unfamiliar sense of admiration for her. The women he and Jonathan had sex with were disconnected. They were one-night stands, casual flings and not typically admirable women. Scarecrow felt confused by the girl on top of him, her defined muscles, tattoos and confidence. She had a smirk that matched his own, kinks and secrets. She made him _burn._ He grabbed her waist, anticipation getting out of hand. He flipped her over, smoothly laying her flat on her back underneath him. He knelt on the mattress, her legs over his, their hips as close as could be. He rocked back and forth, into and out of her, almost entirely. Sensation jolted through her as he thrusted deeper, and she realized she had no reason to be quiet. Almost suddenly, her gasp turned into a moan. She raked her fingernails down his arms, gripping tightly at his biceps and pulling him down to her level. She kissed him roughly as he pumped into her, gasping or moaning or whimpering each time he drove home deeper. In return, he dragged his own nails down her side, leaving red marks that rose on her skin ever so slightly. She bit her lip, relishing the sting as she tightened around him. His choked gasp was music to her ears as he began to thrust harder and harder, making her whimper and grab his shoulders for support as her knees went weak and she trembled under him.

"Oh _God." _She gasped as they both finished, panting and with scratches on their skin. He carefully pulled away, rolling onto his back beside her. They both just lie there for a moment, letting their breathing slow. Ava's body craved closeness, but somehow felt it may not be appropriate. She sat up, carefully pulling off her bra, throwing it on the floor.

"_**You can take over." **_Scarecrow said to Jonathan sleepily.

"_Tired?"_ Jonathan asked sarcastically.

Jonathan watched her appreciatively. She grinned at him, lying back down. Stretching, she rolled beside him as he grabbed the bunched blanket from the end of the bed and pulled it over them. She couldn't help rolling closer to him, just enough so their skin touched. Comforted by the warmth, satisfaction spread through her and made her sleepy. For a moment she remembered her cigarettes on the floor, but the idea was waved away. She was too comfortable to move. Her eyelids became heavy, as did Jonathan's. Half asleep, she curled closer to him. Blackness spread through behind her eyes and she drifted into the deepest sleep she'd had in weeks. Feeling her breathing deepen, Jonathan smiled faintly. She'd been nothing but a surprise since the moment he met her. She was barely touching him, but her fingers were extended to touch his arm. He carefully shifted to his side, watching her intently. He reached over, tracing his fingertips against the raised scratch marks Scarecrow had made on her skin. Feeling his touch, even in her sleep, she squirmed slightly and moved closer. He wondered if allowing himself this would change things. He wrapped his hand around her hip, shifting himself closer and letting her rest her head on his extended arm. He held her close to him, listening to their breathing in the dark as he drifted off.


	8. Razor's Edge

Chapter Eight: Razor's Edge

"_**There's just one thing, all I want you to do.**_

_**A small something, here's my body to use.**_

_**Show the world how to fear and blaspheme,**_

_**Here's the rope—pull it tight—Show me dark and obscene."**_

* * *

A small girl was sitting on the cold floor. Her small arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, folded up to her chest. Her eyes were squeezed tightly closed, her heart hammering away behind her ribs. She tried to calm herself, to even her breathing. She was six years old, and she hid behind the refrigerator with the cobwebs, trembling. She willed herself to breathe softer, willed her heartbeat to be quiet. Her eyes squeezed tighter in an ostrich-like approach to safety as the footsteps grew closer. Her stomach felt like a swamp, so heavy and full of thick blackness. Her fear crawled through her veins like a poison and weighed her down so she couldn't move.

A laugh bounced through the air, drunkenly jovial. It sounded like a mockery, and it was. The refrigerator scraped metallically as it was dragged away, and the girl scrambled backwards on her hands and knees into a corner. A tall, thin man laughed again, reaching down and gripping the girl's already bruised arm. His eyes glowed like embers, akin to the one at the tip of the cigarette in between his chapped lips.

She kept her eyes and mouth shut, becoming unresponsive as she was yanked to her feet. The man shouted something at her, but it went by unheard, a jumble of sounds more than words. She felt like she might throw up. The man's face contorted slightly, anger flaring as he demanded a response. She peeked up at him from under her eyelashes, begging. The set of his jaw changed, and with his free hand he took the cigarette from his lips. A sharklike grin split his mouth as very slowly, he pressed the glowing tip of it into the pale skin of her arm and seared away her flesh.

Ava's eyes shot open, and she felt her body practically seizing. Her wrists felt raw under leather straps and her vision blurred as the back of her skull hit the metal table again. She breathed in deeply through her nose, and closed her eyes for a moment. The clarity was refreshing. She filled her lungs again, keeping time while her heart relaxed.

Beside the table, Jonathan took note of her physical reactions in his neat scrawl, then placing his journal on the table. He went to work undoing the leather bindings that held her to the cold steel. She nodded gratefully, shifting to sit up with her legs hanging over the side of the table.

"What did you see?" He asked professionally, taking up his black leather journal once again.

"It was a memory, this time. I was six, first foster home. My foster father caught me hiding and burned me." She said flatly. She pulled up the sleeve of the thick wine-colored sweater she was wearing to show her doctor a perfect circle of scar tissue on her forearm. "It was like most of the other ones. But I couldn't understand anything he said."

"Do you remember what he had been saying now?" He asked, pen rolling across the paper as he took notes.

"No." She said softly, deep in thought as she rolled her sleeve back down.

"I think we're done for today." He said, offering a hand to help her off the table.

"I can do more if you'd like." She shrugged, trying to shake off the tremors that racked her body in intervals.

"It's not particularly healthy for you." He murmured. He'd given her small amounts, smaller than he'd given his other test subjects. When a subject was given too large a quantity, they seemed to lose coherency for periods of time. A coherent test subject would be much more helpful. She'd reacted as expected, for the most part. Her physical responses were traditional. Her heartbeat increased rapidly, her hands trembled. Halfway through the third trial, she started to scream. The sound was involuntary, a grating shriek of genuine terror. Tears squeezed past her eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks as she had thrashed on the table.

"I guess that's why I agreed to it in the first place." She muttered. She flashed him a shaky smile, trying to stabilize herself as she pulled her jacket back on. The basement had a constant bite, and the cold sweat on her skin felt like it was seeping through and chilling the very marrow of her bones. She looked down at her hands, picking at her nails nervously.

"I…there's something I wanted to ask you." She said carefully, looking up at him. He arched an eyebrow slightly, nodding. "It's just…are psychological disorders…hereditary? Whatever's wrong with Victor Zsasz…" She drifted off hopelessly, afraid to meet Jonathan's eyes. He took off his glasses, tilting his head slightly as he thought on how to respond. She looked worried, and he wondered if she'd been meaning to ask since she'd found out about Victor.

"Many mental illnesses are hereditary, though they don't always manifest in someone's youth." He told her. "It's very possible."

She nodded slowly, deep breaths filling her lungs as she tried to calm herself.

"What haven't you been telling me?" He asked quietly. His eyebrow was arched again as he fixed her in his gaze. She looked at her hands again, amused.

"How do you know if I'm hiding something?" She joked, slight smile on her lips.

She was met with a look from him that was somewhere between sarcastic and insulted and her smile grew a little wider. "Okay, that was dumb. Of course you can tell."

"So? What aren't you saying?" He asked, hand itching for his notebook.

"I…I black out. I'm not sure if it's more like losing time, or sleepwalking, or…I'm not sure. But I black out and when I wake up, I'm somewhere else. I don't remember a damn thing. And more often than not, I'm hurt somehow. Burns, cuts, or bruises…every time I go to sleep, I wake up somewhere else entirely. Last night was the first night in months I've woken up where I went to sleep." She said softly. Her doctor had an expression of mild shock. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, but _blackouts_? That wouldn't have been his guess.

He began to say something, began to form words, but she cut in.

"That's not all." She closed her eyes, breathing deeply while she tried to feel around the subject. "I'm hurting people. I think. I woke up with a bloody knife in my hand last week. It wasn't my blood. I don't remember whose." She concluded. She looked down at her shoes, not wanting to face her own truths.

_**Shit.**_

_That was unexpected._

_**Do you think she's really got our buddy Victor's sickness?**_

_It looks like she's got…something._

_**I think she might be a sociopath.**_

_Sociopaths don't kill people in the middle of the night for recreation._

_**Psychopath, then.**_

_Maybe. _

_**Should we tell her about me? Might make her feel better.**_

_Why do you care how she feels?_

_**I like her.**_

_I'm not sure we can trust her with that yet._

What's she gonna do? She's seeing a psychiatrist. It's not even publicized. If she were to go around and tell everyone about you having two personalities, no one would believe her anyway.

_That is true…I want her to know. But I want her to figure it out for herself._

"Let's go upstairs." He said softly. "I don't think you're anything like Victor Zsasz." He put his hand on her back and walked with her as they both quietly drowned in their own thoughts. All this time, all these years, ever since the first time she'd blacked out, she'd wanted to write it off. She'd ached for the excuse. Surely it was the abuse. It was the years she'd spent afraid and alone with a permanent knot in her stomach that had driven her to the edge and tipped her over. The blackouts meant nothing, and in fact, she was doing well given her circumstances. If she needed help, she could get it, because her lost time was no more than a side effect. Those excuses were now lost, beyond her reach, now that the truth was right in front of her. She'd inherited madness from the father she'd never known, and there was no cure. For the first time in years, she felt panicked. There was a lump in her throat and she wanted to start gasping for air. She was falling into herself, collapsing inwardly like a deck of cards. She felt her charade of control torn from her like an organ, and the gaping hole it had left was expanding through her being. She refused to cry.

Jonathan was in his own mind, remembering his own childhood, his past. He wondered if maybe he—and Scarecrow, respectively—had taken a liking to Ava because of the damage they shared. His mother, his grandmother, for that matter, had treated him the way foster homes had treated Ava. The new information she'd given him while strapped to his table was far too close to home for Jonathan's comfort. That was the reason he'd never tried the drug himself. He knew it would send him back _there._ Down a dusty dirt road and into that barn. When he'd left home, become a doctor, that was when he'd truly moved out. Scarecrow at his mind's side, he'd left the horrors of the childhood he wasn't allowed and become his own person. He wouldn't have to remember the scars on his back or being locked up in that goddamned barn where that _evil _old woman had tried to beat his hopes out of him. He refused to be weak again, to be a scared child hiding from everything. He would be feared, because if he weren't feared, he would be frightened. He wanted to ask Ava everything, and know what she'd done to get away from her past. He felt like she was a brick wall and he wanted _answers._

The two of them could only be perfect for each other, or absolutely awful. She felt so strange with him. While she was falling apart, being torn to shreds by her own hopelessness, he was one of the last things that stayed the same. She was grounded at that moment, if only by the feel of his hand on her back and his presence at her side. She felt terrified of herself, but someone who knew fear like Jonathan Crane would be able to fix her.

He didn't know what to think of how she made him feel. As a doctor, as a genius, a leader, and a survivor, he refused to admit what he knew. Somewhere inside him, buried beneath the textbooks and the darkness, there was a part of him that wanted deeply to find someone who understood. There was another part of him that withdrew at the idea of another betrayal. Jonathan Crane had been lied to and tricked, scorned and mocked in the one instance when he'd admitted he cared.

He desired connection in the most apathetic way. Secretive, and quiet, and unassuming. He wanted her there, but he couldn't say it. It was weak of him to want anything. Scarecrow was that part of him. Scarecrow was everything he couldn't be. He was impulsive and rash and more animal than human. He would be the first to say that Ava was exactly what they needed, the first to remind Jonathan that they both wanted her.


	9. Broken Doll

Chapter Nine: Broken Doll

"_**I'm a broken doll, and you're the puppeteer.**_

_**Take control of me and wipe away my fears.**_

_**I don't claim to be perfect, I know I'm damaged goods,**_

_**But I wanna be led out of darkness just like every lady would."**_

* * *

Ava's eyes shot open to stare into the blackness of her room. Her hair was stuck to her forehead with the cold sweat that covered the rest of her skin. Her sheets were wrapped closely to her body and she panted, rasping, uncomfortable, and dwelling in the feeling of washed out terror that her nightmares left behind. It was the same nightmare, for the third night in a row. Victor Zsasz and his horrifying genetics were haunting her dreams.

It was a sick exchange, like if she didn't sleepwalk she'd have to have nightmares. There was no other way around; it was always one or the other. Part of her wished she hadn't had to learn about her father. Part of her knew she was better for it. She curled her fist around her sheets and tried to breathe, wishing she had any idea what was going to happen.

Victor Zsasz was inside her skull. Inside her blood and bones. He felt like a disease that crawled all over her. She'd been diagnosed with him. She felt disgusting. Shutting her eyes, she snuggled deeper beneath her covers and wished she could tell her sister everything. There was something about this part of her life that just felt too dangerous. Too sick, too stressful, too...dark for her to burden Naomi with it. It was a silly ideal to hold, but her sister felt like everything that was kind and soft and innocent. Everything she wanted to protect. It would be wrong to tell her about something so dirty and upsetting when she didn't really _need_ to know.

Everything she'd ever done wrong, every time she'd skirted around morals for the sake of sadism, her memories were all now tainted. She was sick with fear that what she'd thought were quirks or fetishes could be genuine sickness, laced into her brain, tied around her mind in knots that she couldn't undo.

She started drifting off, slowly, as her breathing evened and she felt her heart beat gently in her chest. Her eyes closed as she slipped, comfortably.

Her alarm rung, high and atomic and incredibly irritating, at 10:30 a.m. she smacked her balled fist down on it, silencing the beep. Eight hours of sleep had certainly not been enough, she thought to herself. Not nearly enough. She slid off of the bed, ruffling her hair over her shoulders and dressing in a hurry, pulling on and tossing off various garments until she was wearing a soft navy blue v neck t-shirt, tight black jeans, and her boots. She brushed the tangles from her straight hair and washed her face, making the last-moment decision to put on some pale concealer, hiding the heavy shadows beneath her eyes. Looking herself up and down in the mirror, she felt an uncomfortable sense of detachment. The number of things that made her feel like a real person was dwindling. She felt pleased that she could go see her doctor, he made her think clearly—like a lighthouse to her fogged up mind.

For all her previous anger on the subject, her father sending her to a psychiatrist had turned out unexpectedly well. Of course, not in the ways that someone might say that therapy is going well. It still was making her feel better. She wasn't being diagnosed, she wasn't being treated. She wasn't even really talking about it. But she had someone who was, at the very least, a friend, and friends were few and far between for her.

What bothered Ava about being sent to see a doctor was that her adoptive father was not doing it out of concern. He wasn't worried about her. He just didn't want her to get out of hand. In fact, Ava had a suspicion that he'd only adopted a wayward teenager to make himself look like a compassionate father, which he generally was not. He cared more for Naomi than he did for Ava, which Ava both understood and accepted. But even so, he barely spoke to Naomi unless she initiated conversation. Naomi had told Ava that when her mother had died, he'd basically gone into press mode. Making himself look sympathetic, shoving Naomi into the spotlight as his poor, sweet teenage daughter. It had taken a lot to get that truth out of her, Ava remembered. Naomi wasn't one to trash talk. She wanted to see the best in her father.

That was the real source of her resentment for Anthony Garcia. A young girl's mother had died and the mayor hadn't spared a moment to comfort her, not really. How could someone do that? Ava knew she wasn't right, she was a bit of an unfeeling freak in most cases—but she wouldn't have been able to let a twelve-year-old girl lose her mother without so much as a comforting word. People like Naomi needed other people.

Ava raked her fingers through her hair and sighed softly. There was snow on her window ledge, on the trees and the ground outside. She gazed at it for a minute, feeling distant, and remembering that she hadn't put on her jacket. It was an unusual, far-off idea, but she thought maybe the icy chill against her skin might make her feel better.

She sauntered down the stairs, through the living room, and into the hall where she opened the door to the garage. She'd convinced the mayor that she wouldn't, in fact, avoid her therapy entirely if she was allowed to drive herself. She'd had to be driven last time to get her car back—something she'd asked her driver not to mention to her father. She climbed into the driver's seat, pressing the button on the ceiling to slide open the garage door. She rolled down her window and started her car, shifting into drive to roll out of the garage. Through the window, the sharp air stung her throat as she inhaled, and as she drove down the rocky driveway, picking up speed, it brushed her hair out of her face with a cold hand.

She was and always would be a winter girl. Lighting a cigarette at a red light, she drove in silence, listening to the wind and the snowfall and the far-off sirens that never stopped. She drove until she reached the asylum. It had stopped scaring her since the encounter with Victor. It seemed like there couldn't be anything _more _uncomfortable than him lurking in its white walls, and she'd be fine to take care of anything that came her way. She had her doctor, too. She smiled a little as she parked her car, trying to think clearly about her feelings for him.

Attraction was an easy thing. Human bodies had some truly great ways of letting their minds know who they wanted. Her stomach felt warm and tight and fluttery in his presence. It was a rare bliss for her, knowing that there was someone as fucked up as her that she had on her side. The only thing that bothered her was that she felt incompetent. He was so intelligent, so professional…it made her feel like a student with a crush on her teacher. She needed a way to be on his level. She shook her head slightly, discarding her thoughts.

She put her hands in her jean pockets as she got out of her car, the chill prickling her skin. She listened to her boots crunching on the gravel as she walked, pausing to drop her cigarette and stub it out with the toe of her boot, wondering with vague amusement once again how the mayor would feel to know about her therapy. That wasn't the aspect that got her off, it was just an added benefit. It just made her happy, the small, secret rebellion.

What got her off, so to speak, was that he made her feel absolutely unique. She'd been with girls and guys both before him, been with some romantically, some sexually, some both. And never, in any variation, any permutation of those options had she ever felt so connected or so brave. She felt honored in a way—Jonathan Crane did not seem the type to date. He didn't seem the type to connect at all. This intelligent, closed off, dark and unusual man…he was _so _attractive to her. So seemingly unattainable.

She felt proud of herself because she had him. She smiled brightly at the receptionist, who waved her through down the hall with a cheerful greeting. As she strolled through the hall and down to Crane's office, a realization of kind hit her while she stared at the nameplate. He made her feel safe. It was a rare moment where she had no worries that he would leave, not even that he would hurt her. She trusted him. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her that she was _absolutely stupid _because for god's sake, the man _experiments on people. _She waved it away, reminding her conscience that he may experiment on people, but she was fairly certain she killed people, and her madness needed company. Crane's door swung open to reveal his familiar face, and she was still awed by his eyes. It occurred to her to call them ridiculous. They were ridiculous, in a way. Like ice. She smiled at him, cracking her knuckles nervously as heat flooded her stomach again.

Something that was almost a smile crossed his full lips as he led her in, closing the door. She went to sit on the couch as usual, crossing her legs.

"Are we going to experiment today?" She asked amusedly, watching him shut the door and lean against his desk.

"I don't think it's advisable, too much of those chemicals over too short a time period could affect your brain negatively." He said, pausing. "But I did want to talk to you about what we discussed the other day."

"My blackouts?" She asked, smile fading as she looked up at him.

"Among other things, yes. I did…some research," he waved a hand vaguely at the books on his desk, causing her to raise an eyebrow. "I don't think that the mayor was…completely wrong in sending you to see me." Her mouth fell very slightly open, eyes slightly hurt. Jonathan felt some slight discomfort at her expression. The look in her eyes reminded him of the one she'd had when hallucinating under his drugs—fear.

"So, I'm really crazy, then?" She asked, hiding the shaky tone in her voice with bitterness. "What's wrong with me?"

"I wouldn't use the term crazy. A lot of mental disorders are difficult to diagnose and classify…your symptoms are somewhere around borderline personality disorder. And…I wouldn't say the earlier call on sadomasochism is far off base. You might've guessed that one." He spoke quietly, searching her face for response.

She leaned back against the sofa, avoiding his gaze and running her hands nervously through her hair. Her eyes stung faintly and she stared up at the ceiling to avert the tears. She breathed in deeply, trying to stop her hands from shaking. It was true, then, her madness was inherited. In her blood and bones and every cell of her body. It was not something she could escape; it was not something she could kill. It was something she would face, be it with confidence or terror. So far it wasn't looking good. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop any sound escaping, clasping one hand over her mouth. She squeezed her eyes tight, like she had done so many times as a little girl. Breathing, in and out. She felt his weight beside her on the sofa, and kept her eyes closed, willing her tears to stay away.

Jonathan didn't know what to think of the white shock of concern that struck him like lightening. He'd felt compassion when he was young. For his mother, drug-addicted, estranged and imprisoned. For the girls he'd wished he'd had a chance with. For the people he'd almost wished had been his friends. Most of all, for the characters of books he'd read. But it had been so long since he'd felt something for another person.

He felt something for her.

He remembered the first time Scarecrow had spoken to him. He'd been a light in the darkness for Jonathan Crane, a friend when he was absolutely alone. He'd offered insight and humor and _schemes._ He'd fixed things for Jonathan when Jonathan couldn't fix them for himself. His madness had saved him. Ava's mind wasn't helping her, though. It was working against her, and Jonathan had to wonder how that must feel. He stunned himself, practically, by sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around her back. She reacted immediately to him, putting her own arms around his waist, her head against his shoulder. She hugged him tightly, trying to repress her sobs, trying to stop her shaking. He was so unused to the feeling. The amount of hugs that Jonathan Crane had had in his lifetime was very, very, _very _low. Zero, to be precise. He was reluctant, but she was warm in his arms. He felt like a protector. It was startling to feel that warmth in his heart.

Ava was startled to feel him touch her, but the hole of her fear, deep and consuming was making her cold. It was boring into her, and if he hadn't been there, she felt the absolute aloneness would have swallowed her. She threw her arms around him, pressing against him, needing for a moment to feel that someone cared. He held her tightly, very hesitantly tracing vague patterns on her back. She didn't want to let go as she realized that mixed in somewhere with her fear and worry and anger, she may genuinely love her doctor.

His arms around her, her breathing slowed until she was calmed. Replacing the sick feeling in her stomach, burning it away, was this unnatural warmth. This strange, our-of-place ecstasy that rolled through her and practically made her shiver. She wanted to thank him. She pulled away very gently, eyes meeting his for a brief moment before she pressed her lips to his. It was different, this time. When they'd kissed before, it had always been a precursor to something much more animalistic. Now, it held meaning. She hoped desperately that the meaning transferred. She kissed him slowly, and for half a second he'd stayed unmoving, shocked. But his hand moved to her jaw, thumb gently touching her cheek. He kissed her back, deeply and slowly and meaningfully. As they pulled away, she looked down at her hands.

"Would you like to know something?" Jonathan asked suddenly, his cool voice startling her. She looked back up at him, giving a slight nod. "I'm not quite…mentally sound, myself."

_**I thought you didn't want to tell her.**_

_I changed my mind._

"What do you mean?" She asked slowly, brow furrowing in confusion.

"I have dissociative identity disorder." He said, matter-of-fact tone. She smiled at him, small laugh escaping.

"You're going to have to clarify, Doctor Crane. Not all of us are psychiatrists." She said, getting a slight smirk from him. He nodded.

"It's better known as multiple personality disorder." He said clearly. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, mouth slightly opened. He stayed silent, observing her. She chewed her lip as she thought, watching him back.

"Have I met him?" She asked suddenly, eyes bright.

Jonathan almost smiled. Not '_are you dangerous?_' or '_oh my god.' _Just, '_have I met him?_'

"Yes…actually…" he drifted off, unsure if he should continue. She arched an eyebrow, waiting. "You sort of had sex with him." Her other eyebrow shot up in response. She was still for a moment before she broke out giggling.

"Score." She said, laughter subsiding. "So it's safe to say he likes me. Can you tell me about him?" She asked hesitantly.

"You could talk to him if you'd like. That's…sort of the way it is for me. Either one of us can operate, so to speak." He told her.

"That's incredible. I'd love to speak with him." She said sincerely, leaning back against the sofa's arm.

Jonathan took a moment to turn his dialogue inward to his old friend.

_I assume you'll play nicely._

_**I'm just surprised she wants to talk to me.**_

_No you're not._

_**No I'm not.**_

"Ava." He said, grinning at her. It startled her, the sudden change in demeanor. Casualty radiated from him now. The same handsome face, but he was relaxed and smiling. Ava felt a different kind of attraction to him.

"What can I call you?" She asked, meeting his eyes with fascination.

"Scarecrow, I figure." He said, giving her a half smile. "That's what I've always been called."

"Sounds intense." She grinned. "I don't remember you acting this way, but he says I slept with you."

"Aw, yeah. I was putting on my Jonathan act back then. He didn't want us to scare you."

"I'm not scared. Didn't you hear? Turns out I'm crazy, too." She smiled bitterly.

"Well, that's great. That's probably why we like you. That, and you're kinky. I'm into that." He said. She almost blushed, smiling.

"Can you tell me more? About how you and he are different, I mean. Will I always be able to tell you apart? And…who am I in a relationship with, here?" She almost giggled, and Scarecrow smirked back.

"I'm the fun one." He started. After a seconds' pause, he spoke again. "Jonathan just called me a rude name, and would like me to clarify that I'm the _reckless _one." Ava smiled at that before he continued. "Most likely, you will. I can imitate him, pretty well, though. He has no acting skills. And I think it's fair to say you're dating both of us. You and me, though, I'm not sure we've made any commitment yet. Jonny's too into you to think of anyone else." There was another pause at what Ava figured was Jonathan responding. She tried not to smile. "He doesn't like me in charge much. Don't think he trusts me." He whispered to her behind his hand, as if Jonathan wouldn't be able to hear. "Speaking of, I think he wants to talk to you. Who am I to argue? Nice meeting you." He grinned mischievously, kissing her hard before leaving Jonathan in charge. She blinked in surprise.

"My apologies." He said stiffly. "He's a bit…" Jonathan tried to think of the right word.

"He's kind of funny." She said.

"He thinks so." He murmured. Ava smiled, sitting quietly for a moment.

"Thank you." She said. "Thank you for telling me." He watched her, trying to repress the warmth in his fingertips and chest. She leaned forward and kissed him again, gently. She was somewhere in between confused and contented, and it would do for now.

* * *

**A/N:** Hot damn, that was the longest chapter I've done! Thank you all so much for your support, I live for your reviews, both negative and positive. You're all incredibly insightful and I'm absolutely flattered that you're following my story! Thank you thank you thank you! Please keep reviewing, if there's something you want to see more or less of I want to know!

Also, the songs I've used up until now are "Living Dead Girl" by Rob Zombie, "Make Me Bad" by Korn, "Rev 22-20" by Puscifer, "Naughty Naughty" by Porcelain Black, "Cold Blooded" by the Pretty Reckless, "Power & Control" by Marina and the Diamonds, "Mz. Hyde" by Halestorm, "Razor's Edge" by William Control, and "Broken Doll" by Paloma Faith. I was going to go back and individually list those in an A/N on each chapter, but I can't do that without giving you all an ass-ton of email notifications, and that's a bit of a dick thing to do. I'll be listing them like that from now on, though.

Cheers.

MikaMurha


	10. Setting Yourself Up For Sarcasm

Chapter Ten : Setting Yourself Up For Sarcasm

"_**You would be the corpse and I would be the killer,**_

_**If I would be the devil, you would be the sinner.**_

_**You would be the drugs and I would be the dealer,**_

_**Everything you say is like music to my ears."**_

* * *

Snow continued to fall in a soft, loose pattern, white against the navy sky. The light crystals drifted down, twirling and sinking and covering everything. Ava was sitting on the mansion's front porch, smoking, and letting the white flakes settle in her hair and on her clothes. She held the cigarette between her fingers, inhaling deeply, focusing on the feeling. The sun had set only moments ago, leaving the sky in a heavy blue, barely tinged with magenta at the horizon. _It would be beautiful if I could see stars_, she thought. Gotham's light pollution was awful. She held her cigarette very still; smoking from an odd angle, trying to see how much ash would balance on its end. The snow was perfect when it had just fallen. Untouched, unsullied. The pure white was beautiful. As the tiny tower of cigarette ash tumbled and fell to the snow, Ava sighed softly. She ground it out against the cement of the porch floor, standing up carefully, brushing the snow off of her pants.

Walking inside to the kitchen, she was throwing away what was left of her cigarette when her back pocket began to vibrate. She reached into the pocket and pulled out her phone, glancing down at the caller ID. Jonathan Crane was calling, it read. She raised an eyebrow slightly and pressed the answer button, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hey. What's going on?" She asked into the receiver. The last time he'd called her it hadn't been for casual conversation.

"Ava…don't panic, but there's something you have to know." He sounded uncomfortable, the tone of his voice making Ava stiffen slightly.

"What is it?" She asked warily. The sick feeling of concern returned to her stomach as she tightened her grip on the phone.

"Victor escaped Arkham an hour ago." He told her hesitantly. For a moment there was only silence over the phone as Ava stood frozen. She took in a deep breath, staring down at her hand, which had begun to tremble.

"What are we going to do?" She asked him, quiet edge seeping into her voice.

"I think we should leave. Go…somewhere. I'd be willing to say that he's going to come looking for you." He said. "He knows where to find you, and if you're not at your house, he'll look for you at mine." She took a moment in the silence to feel very scared, and then she repressed it.

"Should I meet you somewhere?" She asked.

"I can come get you." He said quietly.

"Okay. Should I…pack things?"

"Enough for a few days, I'd think. I'll be there in…fifteen minutes." He said. "Don't…tell anyone where you're going."

"I won't." She said softly. "I'll see you soon." She hung up, letting her hands hang at her side for a moment as she stood and breathed in and out. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, inhaled deeply. She was about to open them when a voice startled her.

"What was that?" Naomi asked softly. Ava turned, eyes widened slightly in surprise. A look of concern crossed her face. How could she explain this to her sister? She couldn't involve her, but how could she protect her?

"I have to go somewhere. I'm…I'm really not sure when I'll get back." She said, nervously picking at her nails. She crossed the room to Naomi, putting her hands on her little sister's shoulders. "You need to spend the night at a friend's house tonight. You need to just…trust me." A small look of anger flitted across Naomi's face.

"You want me to just leave? What the hell is going on, Ava?!" She asked. A pained look crossed Ava's face, conflicted as she looked at Naomi.

"I…you will really be safer if you don't know. You know I wouldn't lie to you, I wouldn't make this up…but you need to trust me. Please." She looked into Naomi's brown eyes, earnestly, begging her. Naomi's expression of anger was frozen for a few moments more, before it resigned.

"Okay. I'll go to Bella's house." She said softly. Ava wrapped her arms around Naomi in a crushing embrace for a moment.

"Please know I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important. I hate scaring you. Please text me, okay? Keep in contact." She whispered. "Take my car." She told her sister, digging her keys out of the pocket and putting them in her sister's hand. She smiled at her, knowing Naomi liked her car better than her own. "I'll see you soon, I promise." Naomi's expression softened and she smiled at her sister.

"Love you, blondie." She said wryly.

"Love you too, shorty." Ava grinned. She watched as her sister went outside and got in her car, made sure to watch as she pulled out of the driveway. She breathed a sigh of relief and checked the clock on the microwave. She had five minutes. Half-running to the stairs, she climbed them two at a time into her room where she grabbed clothes out of her dresser and shoved them into a black messenger bag. Several shirts, jeans, sweaters, bras, panties, socks. She threw in her makeup bag and after a moment of hesitation, the switchblade from the box under her bed. She threw in a pack of Camels and her Zippo before closing the bag. Peering out the window, she saw a silver car roll up the driveway, and hoped desperately that it was him. For some reason, she was under the impression that Victor Zsasz probably traveled on foot. She climbed back down the stairs, bag over her shoulder and out the front door.

* * *

Ava was lying on a very large, soft mattress. Unbeknownst to her, Jonathan apparently owned multiple properties. This one was at the very outskirts of Gotham, a complex made within the last month. There were two other tenants in the whole building—Jonathan's apartment was on the very top floor. Jonathan's reasoning was that when Victor realized that the two of them weren't at their homes, he would assume they'd left the city completely. The reasoning seemed fair enough. They'd been here for two days, and it had become apparent to her that Jonathan had a very particular sense of style. It was nice, everything in order. It was similar to his apartment near Arkham, with wide windows and white furniture. Bookshelves everywhere, soft sheets on the bed.

Ava was reading, legs folded under her, back to the headboard. The room's curtain was drawn—you couldn't be too safe, really. She was reading Stephen King's _The Shining, _enjoying it immensely. Jonathan had gone out to get more money and alcohol, necessities for fugitives of a kind. He'd left about thirty minutes ago, and she'd been content to stay and read_**. **_As she dragged her forefinger down the side of the page, she was startled by a knock on the door. Jonathan had a key. Obviously. It wasn't like she'd ordered a pizza. The knocking persisted, escalating in ferocity. Fear shot through her veins in a temporary rush. Her mind buzzed as she set down the book and crawled to the edge of the bed. Leaning down, she pulled her messenger bag from its place under the bed, digging inside until she found the handle of her knife. _A gun would be better, _she thought to herself. The door began to make cracking sounds, the wood splintering under what sounded more like kicking than knocking. She rose, climbing off the bed and leaving the bedroom, moving silently with the knife clenched in her right palm as she flicked it open.

Her scene was oddly reminiscent of a slasher film, the kind she always watched, freely giving the lead character advice like, "turn on the lights" or "stop fucking _screaming_." She readjusted her grip on the knife, listening to the door giving way. A splinter became obvious on her side of the door with another kick about halfway up. Eyeing her situation, she moved silently to stand behind the door, to where if it opened, she'd be behind the intruder. She waited, flinching slightly at each kick. Resonating, shaking the drywall, the door gave way to a white shoe. She watched, petrified, pressed to the wall in silence. The shoe pulled out of the hole, and after a moment, a hand reached through, up to the lock. She steadied her hand, waiting, as a man's hand unlocked the door from the inside. The door creaked open, and a chill drove down her spine as she heard Victor's voice.

"Who's home?" He asked in a disgusting, playful tone. Her socks silent on the hardwood floor, she moved forward and plunged her blade into his shoulder. She felt every second of the cold metal sinking into the muscle, and his agonized scream ripped into her eardrums. She jerked the knife out of him, stumbling backwards, tensed and trying to look intimidating. He spun to face her, enraged and unstable.

"You _bitch!" _he snarled, lunging for her. His palms enclosed around her throat, slamming her to the wall. Tightly, he dug his thumbs against her trachea, forcing painful, empty gasps from her. The knife was still held loosely in her right hand. Beginning to feel dizzy, she found the strength to force it between his ribs, up to the handle, only to yank it back out. His hands released her as he emitted another growl, his right fist flying into her cheek. For a moment, she saw stars. Glaring back at him, she hoped that the double vision wouldn't interfere as she blindly kicked at his face. The heel of her foot hit his nose, sending him backwards on the heels of his hands. She scrambled to her feet, still having trouble breathing as he took her fallen knife, swinging wildly, landing shallow cuts on her legs. She stumbled into the kitchen, ripping the heavy toaster out of the wall. She threw it, slamming it down atop Victor Zsasz's head. He sank to the floor, unsteadily, head rolling back against his shoulders, hitting the wood. Bruises began to blossom in dark, ugly shades of blue at his temples and Ava grimaced, gripping the counter for stability. She began to pull open kitchen drawers until she found what she was looking for; duct tape. She went back and knelt beside unconscious Victor, using some of her remaining strength to roll him over and duct tape his wrists together. She used an impressive amount of tape, looping in and out and around until she was positive he was secure, before doing the same with his ankles. Finally, she pulled a final piece of tape, biting it off and placing it firmly over his mouth. She didn't want to hear his rudeness, and she didn't need him to scream anymore. She felt exhausted, her cheek was throbbing and her ankles stung, riddled with a pattern of sharp cuts. She walked stiffly to the bathroom, hunting until she found rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. _My luck, _she thought to herself as she came back and sank down against the wall beside Victor. Shakily, she poured alcohol on a cotton ball and pressed it to the cuts on her ankles. She went through each one, putting the bloody cotton on her lap as she ritually disinfected the next. The sting made her grit her teeth slightly, but she finished after a moment.

Jonathan walked down the hallway, plastic bag in hand to find that the door to his apartment had a gaping, splintered hole in it. He arched a brow and pushed it open, worry swimming in his stomach despite his effort to stay calm. His jaw fell open slightly at the sight before him. Victor Zsasz, duct taped, bloody and unconscious on the wooden floor. Ava, cleaning her cuts, with a horribly bruised cheek, leaned up against the wall. She glanced up at him.

"Sorry about the blood on the floor. Also, I broke your toaster. Sorry." She said. "Also the door. That wasn't my fault but I kinda let it happen. I'll pay you back for, uh…damages." She said, capping the alcohol carefully and scooping up her bloody cotton balls. She grasped the wall, standing carefully to throw them away.

"Are you…what happened?" He asked, shutting the door behind him, and putting the bag down in the kitchen.

"Well. Kind of a weird story." She said, slight smile. He paused thoughtfully before reaching into the bag on the counter and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He tilted it suggestively, watching a grin break on her face. She leaned against the counter as he grabbed two shotglasses, placing them on the island and filling them up.

"Alright," she began, taking one of the glasses and swallowing the shot, "I was reading, and he started…knocking, I guess. He didn't stop, and after a minute, he was kicking. Trying to break down the door. I got that knife"—she gestured to the bloody weapon on the floor—"out of my bag, and sorta hid behind the door. He broke a hole in it and unlocked it, let himself in, and I stabbed him in the shoulder." She rubbed at her temples, trying to remember details. "He tried to choke me," Jonathan noticed faint bruising at her throat, "and I stabbed him in the ribs. I don't think I got any major organs. I got up to smash his head in with your toaster—sorry about that, again—and he tried to stab my ankles. I, ah, got him. With the toaster. Yeah. I taped him up because I figure he'll come back around sooner or later and we don't want him to be capable of doing…things." She muttered. Jonathan watched her intently, assessing the bruise on her cheek. Deep purple and red and blue blossomed across her cheekbone. His gaze shifted to the sick man on his floor. The thought of him attacking her made he and Scarecrow both very agitated.

_**We'd better be planning to kill him.**_

_I want to._

He touched her bruise, making her bite her cheek slightly in discomfort.

"I wish I'd been here." He told her regretfully, dark tone to his voice.

"You're here now. We're not done with him." She said, smirking as she threw a glance towards Victor.

"No, we're not." His eyes were colder than usual, sort of distant. He ran his hand down her side to rest on her hip as he pulled her closer, smiling maliciously. He watched her, small sense of pride burning in his heart at her triumphant smirk, the gleam of malice in her bright eyes. She was beginning to be like him, he thought. Beginning to see her darkness as a tool rather than a burden. It was so _boring _to comply with other peoples' morals. It had always been so _tedious _to follow the rules. Something big was coming, he felt, and she could very well be an important part of it. It would take gentle convincing. The first step would be letting her kill Victor. She'd killed before—that seemed obvious—but never truly of her own volition. She couldn't even remember it; she was a murderer on autopilot.

But she was a murderer. It was there, Jonathan knew. He simply had to bring it out. She was his to shape, he decided. His to create and guide, and she would be everything he needed her to be. He tightened his grip around her waist, pressing her close to him, moving his hand to her back. It went beyond his need for control, beyond their physical attraction. She was confused, angry, and ultimately frightened—she was what he had been before Scarecrow. She was the same kind of scarred, the same kind of closed-off and broken and violent that he was.

She was much like him, and beyond his desire to just _have her_, he felt he truly cared for her. She felt like something he'd been missing for a longer time than he'd care to admit. Something like an equal, a partner who wasn't just Scarecrow.

She interrupted his mental stream by leaning into him, twining her fingers through his dark hair and kissing him fiercely, gently biting his lip. He got off on fear, and she on pain—what a pair indeed. He reached behind her, under her shirt to rake his fingernails against her skin, to leave angry risen red marks against her flesh. She smiled against his lips, a whisper of a moan escaping her as the tingling burn spread through her nerves. Her head was just beginning to buzz when she heard a heavy _thump._ She froze, very reluctantly pulling away from him to meet his eyes. He raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering to the living room. She inhaled deeply, running her hand fleetingly down his chest before turning to walk to the room where Victor was. She walked over to him with slight hesitation, frowning down at his bound body. He seemed to have only just woken, and met her eyes with such rage and disgust that she almost took a step back. Instead, she knelt beside him with an acidic smile on her face, tearing the duct tape away from his mouth with a loud _rip._

"Good evening, you stupid son of a bitch." She grinned. Jonathan walked into the room behind her, gazing down at Victor without sympathy. The man who had called himself a serial killer, a liberator? Pathetic. Jonathan wondered if Ava would need convincing to kill the man.

_**It can't be that difficult. I mean, she already kills people, right?**_

_Not consciously. It's different, I imagine. She doesn't know she's doing it._

_**But the psycho murderous part of her is somewhere in there.**_

_That's the point. We're going to find it._

_**I have a feeling she won't take much pushing.**_

Jonathan turned back to the scene, watching patiently. His mind's gears clicked and rolled mechanically as he sorted out hypotheses. Her breaking point seemed to be her mental stability, which made it perfect, really, for her to kill Victor Zsasz—it _was_ his fault that she was damaged. Ava sat on the hardwood floor beside Victor, legs crossed, chatting idly. Her voice was high and mocking, relaxed, her words were full of vague threats. Her playful intimidation was something like the calm before the storm—and the storm would be _bloody. _At least, he hoped. He wanted very deeply to see Victor in pain, in terror, thrashing on the floor, and he wanted her to do it. _He_ wanted to be the creator that made Ava into a masterpiece. Deep in his own thoughts, he was only half aware of the scene before him, and only tuned in when Ava stood, mouth set in a hard line as she glared down at Victor.

"You get an A plus for trying, Victor," she spat his name venomously, "but you're an idiot. You thought you were a savior? You're cheap. You're messy, you're a freak. You're not _intelligent_, Victor—you aren't _special. _You're a mentally defective criminal like everyone else, not a goddamned higher power." She growled, fists balled tightly, nails digging into her palms to leave harsh marks in her skin. His ringing laugher nauseated her, mocking and snarling in her ears.

"Sweetheart, you're the defective one. What's this I hear about living in foster care and getting arrested?" He rasped viciously, grinning from ear to ear as her expression of rage became one of bewilderment. She looked to Jonathan, shocked and angry, eyes wide. He raised his eyebrows, minimally shaking his head in response.

"You think I didn't take a look at our doctor's files before I came to find you? And you called me stupid." He broke into another fit of laughter, only to further anger her. Her composure was long gone, but her restraint remained, Jonathan noted. Every snide comment of Victor's directed at her sanity was chipping it a little bit further, shooting cracks through its foundation. Jonathan strolled coolly from the room, into the kitchen, listening observantly through the wall while they threw insults at each other. Eyeing the knife set, Jonathan carefully drew one out, a sleek, steel blade, thin as paper and sharper than a razor blade. He held it casually behind him as he reentered the main room to find Ava crouched beside Victor, who she had pushed up to the wall, her hand gripping his shoulder and her knuckles white.

Victor could feel her losing it just as Jonathan could, and he was a minefield of insane glee.

"You're just like me." He grinned, choking as she drove her fist into his stomach. "You always will be. In some ways—" he coughed as she hit him again "you _are _me." He grinned at her and she froze, eyes boring into his. She took a deep breath and began to tear away the duct tape that held his feet together, shaky and violent in her movements. Jonathan, standing behind her, started in shock. Slowly, carefully, he knelt beside her and slipped the knife, handle first, into her palm. She turned to look at him, eyes wide and surprised, hesitation behind them as she began to think she wasn't ready to kill Victor, despite how much she told herself she'd like to. Jonathan's eyes were fixed on hers, silently reassuring as he closed her hand around the knife, standing up behind her to observe. Slowly, she turned back to Victor, steadying her shaking hand around the knife—it was so strange how her apathy seemed to come and go. _Victor Zsasz deserves death, _she told herself. He did, that was fair to say. He'd killed civilians, people who were loosely to be considered innocent. He'd dared to have a child, Ava thought, familiar anger simmering in her brain. She saw red, dizzy as she looked at her _father._ Quickly, she finished ripping off the tape—feet and hands—and stood up. In the same moment as she rose, Victor lurched to his feet and started cackling at her, diving with outstretched arms to grab at her throat. Startled, she swung loosely with the blade in her hand and neatly grazed along his jaw as she stumbled backwards. The cut was shallow, straight, and long, and it bled immediately. A grin split his face as he pressed a finger up to the light wound, forcing more blood from the slit.

"This one can be yours." He snarled. "And I'll have to make another one for your doctor." He grinned. He dove again, hand successfully clasping around her windpipe for the second time that night. Jonathan took a step forward, prepared to intervene as Victor's hand tightened and Ava choked painfully under the grip. Her eyes darkened as she stared into Victor's, and with sudden roughness, she shoved the blade into the flesh of Victor's abdomen. A scarlet blossom of blood stained the fabric of the Arkham uniform he still wore. She stabbed him in the way that someone gets a piercing—anticipation and then a single jump, fueled by will. Tension dwelled in her stomach for moments before she plunged the blade into him if only to _get it over with._ She drew it out and in again, goring him vigorously. His blood began to cover her hand as he slumped, limp, held up only by her trembling hands and the steel lodged in his stomach. She pulled it out, shoving him off of the blade and crawling backwards with only the thought of getting away from him, from his body, from his sick presence. She breathed heavily, releasing the knife and sliding it away from her. In the silence, she realized he was dead. She realized there were tears on her cheeks, and she'd already tried to wipe one away before she realized she'd smudged his blood under her eye. It felt filthy. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and tried not to panic. Her heart pounded in her chest, throbbing, aching, and thumping so hard it hurt. She tried to swallow, her throat dry to contrast her eyes as they stung with tears. Unsteady, she stood. She looked the part—deranged, that is. Afraid. She was disheveled, her hair messy and her shirt hanging off one shoulder. Her throat was bruised to match her cheek, and Victor's crimson blood was smeared under her eye, on her hands. She stared at his body, slumped against the wall, and something like pride sparked somewhere inside her. She'd rid the world of something horrible. Perhaps it wasn't so bad, she thought. _But you did kill someone._ _Maybe he was right. Maybe you're as insane as he is—trying to justify murder. Maybe you're sick. _

Jonathan's hand touched her lower back. The gesture was so familiar. She'd thought earlier about him being an anchor for her—and it was even more true now. His hand against her back made her breathe more slowly. She wanted to lean into him, but stopped for fear of getting Victor's blood all over—such a silly thing to consider as she felt so close to the edge. She simply turned to look into his eyes, communicating through the static silence. _I did it._

* * *

_A/N: "Setting Yourself Up For Sarcasm" by Get Scared. Posting now to make up for the wait you had to endure for the last chapter. As usual, please review! X MikaMurha_


	11. Falling

Chapter Eleven : Falling

"_**I'm not scared to jump, I'm not scared to fall.**_

_**If there was nowhere to land, I wouldn't be scared at all."**_

* * *

Ava stood in the shower, her head tilted back against the tile. The water was scalding, practically. It made her skin red and her head dizzy, and she simply allowed it. Perhaps it would clean her. _Murderer. _Victor's blood had come off her immediately, but it was as if she still felt it, staining her hands. Her face. She rubbed at her skin, shivering in the burning water. She'd been afraid she was crazy; truly afraid she was losing it. Was this confirmation? She'd killed him, she'd probably killed before him. A cold, cold shiver seemed to roll through her and she made the water hotter, stinging tears in her eyes dropping down her cheeks. She was losing herself. Part of her had washed down the drain in a wave of scarlet, and the part that was left was because of Victor. She was glad she wouldn't have to see him again. Not his body, nor his blood. Not his laughing face, his manic eyes, not those awful scars. Jonathan had said he'd get someone to remove Victor's body within half an hour, and surely she'd been in the shower for longer. She looked down at the cuts on her ankles and hoped only that they wouldn't make scars of her own. She didn't need any more reminders of Victor on her. She shut off the water, her skin an angry shade of red where she'd let it burn her. She pushed the curtain away, stepping out of the shower and grabbing one of the towels. The heat had left her so lightheaded, dizzy. She tried to towel dry her hair, pausing to stare in the mirror at her reflection.

The first thing she saw were her bruises. They were heavy and purple, one under her eye, across her cheekbone and the other one at her throat. They were awful and risen. She looked at the clothes she'd brought to change into, squeezing the towel around her long hair and putting it down on the counter. The angry hollowness was spreading through her skin. She'd been afraid before, she thought as another burning tear rolled over her bruise, but she was terrified now. It was like slipping out of her body. She was far away, she needed a tether. A person, a goal, a life. Something, anything that might pull her back. She pulled on black underwear, yoga pants and a soft long sleeved shirt, pushing its sleeves up to her elbows. Her wet hair hung down her back, making her shiver again as she hung up the towel. She spared another glance to the mirror as she gently wiped her tears away from her bruise. She looked terrible. She carefully opened the door, turning to walk out of the bathroom, and noticed immediately that Jonathan had kept his promise. Somehow, the floor was spotless, the body gone. The toaster seemed to have been replaced. A ghost of a smile crossed her face at the thought of one of Jonathan's workers buying a toaster for them.

"Are you alright?" His familiar voice asked from the living room. She broke her eyes away from the place where Victor had been to look at Jonathan, sitting on the couch. He had a book open on his lap but his eyes were fixed on her from behind his glasses. She chewed her lower lip, walking over to him to sit beside him.

"I don't know. I want to be. I…he deserved it." She said tightly, looking down at her hands.

"The world is better without Victor Zsasz in it." He said simply, watching her.

"I believe that. I just wish I hadn't been the one." She murmured. He raised an eyebrow.

"Look at it like this…you're free now. There's nothing you can't do. You can't tell me that you don't feel _powerful._" He said, turning more towards her, his determined gaze fixed on her eyes. Her brow furrowed slightly as she met his stare.

"I…a little bit. I think it's overwhelmed by…I don't know. I feel like I'm losing myself." She half-whispered.

"Maybe you're being replaced by a version of you that's stronger." He said. There was a heavy pause before she lifted her head slightly.

"Jonathan." She said softly. She'd started using his first name after she'd run off with him—it seemed too formal to continue calling him doctor. He gave a small nod, waiting.

"Have you killed people?" She asked him softly.

"Yes." He said. She watched him, his eyes.

"Did they deserve it?" She asked.

"Some of them."

There was another moment of silence as she thought.

"Why don't I mind?" She asked with quiet incredulity. He cocked his head to the side, slight smile on his lips.

"I don't know. Because you know I'm not going to kill you, perhaps." He said. She smiled, looking down again as she pulled her legs up on the sofa and curled closer to him.

"If I'm…being replaced with a new version of myself…you're the only one who knows me." She whispered. He waited quietly to find words good enough to respond with as she rested her head on his chest. He put his arm around her, feeling her burning skin through her clothes.

"You're the only one who knows me, too." He said thoughtfully.

A very faint smile crossed her lips as she felt his beating heart through his chest. His hand rested on her back and gently traced vague patterns there against her shirt.

"What day is it?" She asked softly. The date escaped her, hell, the time escaped her. It was probably after midnight.

"December…the twenty-fourth, now." He said, checking his watch. Surprised, she smiled sadly.

"It's Christmas Eve." She whispered. He raised his eyebrows, looking down at her.

_**Weird, she doesn't seem like the Christmassy type.**_

_I was thinking the same. Maybe it's nostalgic for her._

_**I'm sure the abusive foster parents threw great Christmas parties.**_

_She did get adopted, you recall._

_**The mayor's kind of an asshole too, though.**_

"Do you…celebrate Christmas?" He asked curiously. She sat up, pushing her hair back and facing him.

"I don't not celebrate Christmas, I guess. As a kid I hated it, but I appreciated it more since I got adopted. It's nice in a frantic sort of way. It makes some people happy." She gave a half shrug. "What about you? You don't really seem the type." She said, almost smiling. A corner of his mouth twitched.

"No. I haven't…ever." He said thoughtfully. She furrowed her eyebrows.

"Not as a kid?" She asked, surprised. Christmases may not have been a part of her life as a child, but she was aware they occurred for most children.

"My grandmother didn't believe in gifts. She valued the religious aspect of Christmas, but aside from attending church, she thought it was a holiday for selfish children. Needless to say, I didn't get any presents from her." He said with a wry smile. Ava looked at him sympathetically. "Are you going to suggest we have Christmas?" He asked. There was sarcasm in his tone, but a part of him felt like it might not be so terrible to have Christmas here, for the first time, with her. She smiled at him and glanced downward.

"Maybe not in the conventional sense. I don't think we should…get a tree, or stockings." She laughed softly, leaning against him again. "But I think that maybe it'd mean more to spend it with someone like you." He watched her with a careful smile.

* * *

Ava woke up the same way she'd fallen asleep, curled around Jonathan in the bed. She'd convinced him to watch Silence of the Lambs with her on the plasma screen that dominated the wall, assuring him that if nothing else, he would love Dr. Lecter. He had. She'd fallen asleep with her head on his chest and her arm over his stomach while he watched it a second time. She'd fallen asleep feeling much safer and much better than she'd felt in a long time. She'd wondered for a moment as she hung on the edge of consciousness whether or not he was her boyfriend. It seemed too mundane a term for their unconventional relationship. Either way, she'd fallen asleep comfortable.

She woke up with an idea in her mind, and very carefully removed herself from Jonathan. He rolled over when she pulled away, and his steady, slow breathing assured her he was asleep. Outside the window, at the edge of the blackout curtain, she could see gray sunlight. She walked quietly over to get some clothes from her bag and pull them on. _Christmas Eve, _she thought to herself. A year ago she'd been with Naomi, being taught to bake cookies. Her life was so mundane before all of this. She zipped up her jeans, pulling her heavy gray shirt down over them as she tucked money and her phone into her back pockets. Life had been different a year ago. Hell, life had been different a week ago. She glanced back at Jonathan and half smiled. He was the most collected person she'd ever met, the most professional, but when he was sleeping he looked nothing like himself. His dark hair was everywhere, his face peaceful, and his glasses on the table. He slept almost in a fetal position, with one arm under his pillow. Ava reminded herself that it was creepy to watch people sleep, and pulled her long hair back into a ponytail. Silently, she stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her, squinting in the light that flooded the living room through its floor-to-ceiling windows. There was thick snow swirling through the air outside and for a moment, she regretted not having a coat with her. Walking into the kitchen, she took the small notepad and a ballpoint pen from beside the phone on the counter, which was unplugged. She chewed her lip for a moment as she wrote in messy, sharp handwriting on the paper.

_If I'm not here when you're up, I'll be back soon. Just had to get something._

_A_

She capped the pen and put it beside the note, moving them both to the center of the counter where they would be obvious.

Ava climbed out of the taxi, passing its driver her money. As she shut the door behind her, she began to shiver slightly as the air was sharp, cold, and it hurt for her to inhale. In its own way, it was still pleasant. It was preferable to Gotham's summer heat. Putting her hands in her pockets, she paused to light a cigarette, away from the shop and its 'no smoking' sign.

Inhaling deeply, she simply thought.

She wanted to believe that she hadn't killed Victor. It would have been a nicer story if she hadn't, she thought. But that blood was already on her hands, permanently. It was a part of her now. And the collapse she'd been feeling, the vacancy, it had reached its tipping point when she'd plunged her knife into him. It was the very rock bottom of what she'd feared. She'd worried she was dangerous or crazy, and now she'd killed someone. _But, _she thought as she tapped the ash off of her cigarette, _there's only one way to go once you've reached the bottom. _She didn't have to be Victor. She was a murderer now, but she wasn't him. He wasn't innocent.

She dropped her cigarette, grinding her heel against the glowing ash and turning to go inside. As the automatic doors spread open, there was a soft wash of warmth from inside. She hummed softly to herself as she walked up and down and around the quiet store until she found what she was looking for, turning it over in her hands and smiling triumphantly.

* * *

Jonathan woke up, reaching over blindly to get his glasses from the bedside table. He sat up clumsily, noticing that Ava wasn't there with mild surprise. Every day so far she'd slept several hours later than him. He wondered vaguely what time it was, whether or not he'd slept too late. He squinted at the clock behind his lenses. 9:32 a.m. He ran his hand over his hair where it always stuck up and stood. As he pulled open the door he squinted only slightly in the light, gray and white with snow. He glanced around the apartment, listened for a moment. It felt and sounded empty—no humming or soft singing or footsteps on the hardwood.

He sauntered towards the kitchen, yawning when a yellow post-it on the counter caught his eye. A note scrawled in Ava's chaotic handwriting, telling him she'd gone to get something. As he peeled it off the marble, the front door—freshly repaired—clicked and opened. Cheeks still flushed from the snow outside, Ava walked in quietly and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of Jonathan standing in the kitchen. He watched her with mild amusement as she hastily hid the plastic bag behind her back.

"Good morning." He said casually, filling a coffee pot with water out of the refrigerator.

"Hey." She said, shutting the door behind her, bag still poised carefully behind her back.

"Should I ask what's in that bag?" He asked, one eyebrow half raised.

"You know. Disembodied hands, some fire, my hopes and dreams." She grinned.

"Mmm. I'm not phased."

"You never are." She said, slipping into the bedroom. Quietly, she marveled at herself, at her relationship with him. It was like being in an ocean of absolute madness, aboard a ship of sanity. Isolated, taken away from the circumstances in which they'd met and become _them, _they were normal. They were any couple on any given day. There were layers upon layers of normality hiding a core of insanity.

She wasn't right. She was a murderer despite her best efforts. Her empathetic abilities came and went at the drop of a hat; she was irrational, impulsive, and violent.

He was crazy, by general analysis. Two personalities. Multiple murders. He was testing on people who by no stretch of the understanding were willing participants. What was it about him that made her want to justify his actions?

He made her feel safe. There was a home somewhere in the danger and the sadness and the insanity that made him. Looking at him, she saw her own salvation—he was madder than she, more _crazy_ in its simplest form. He was also a genius. He was a professional, an innovative and intelligent man. He was the embodiment of stability. He was a perfect example…almost.

Ava stuffed the bag under the bed and sank back against its side.

She needed him now.

* * *

**A/N: "Falling" – Florence + The Machine**


	12. Beautiful Disguise

Chapter Twelve : Beautiful Disguise

"_**I'll breathe in all your sorrow,**_

_**fill your empty space so hollow.**_

_**Remove the mask is all I ask,**_

_**And I will always follow."**_

* * *

"Open it." Ava insisted, dropping the gift on Jonathan's lap and sitting next to him on the bed.

"This is ridiculous. I thought gifts were given on Christmas day." He muttered, eyeing the red and green paper and shining silver bow. (Ava had gotten it gift wrapped at the store, as she didn't actually know how to do it herself.)

"I'm impatient." She watched him intently, smiling when he gave her an exasperated look. Giving in, he carefully unstuck and unfolded the wrapping paper, tedious and patient. Ava rolled her eyes, trying not to smile and thinking, _of course he's that kind of person. _

_**What'd she get us?**_

_It feels like a book._

_**She knows you pretty well, huh?**_

He carefully removed the last bit of paper and placed it aside, pleasantly surprised at the small notebook he held in his hand. It looked to be bound by hand, expensive leather and thick paper. It had a silk strip hanging between two of its pages to mark a place, and he let it fall open. Inside was a black and gold pen, heavy and sleek. It looked like it could write underwater if it wanted to. Expensive and delicate, he noted.

He seemed to be unaware that he was actually smiling as he turned it over in his hands, and Ava was almost beaming as she watched him. She bit her lip, feeling vastly pleased with herself.

"Thank you." He said quietly, meeting her eyes with his own bright ones. Something in the way he looked at her made her stomach roll pleasantly, made her fingertips tingle slightly. It also made her heart break for him. She couldn't help but imagine so many Christmases where Jonathan had been alone—_truly_ alone. She'd had Naomi, later on. He hadn't had anyone, really.

Looking at him, she felt a strange clash of feelings. Arousal, sympathy, admiration. Mixed together they felt like fondness set on fire. She grabbed him gently, a hand on each side of his jaw, and kissed him. She felt him carefully move his gift off his lap and onto the glass nightstand before his hands grasped her waist, pulling her closer. He was always so careful. She kissed him gently as she straddled him on the bed, and felt almost dizzy at the way he held her so tightly, pressing her to his chest. It felt protective. His hands, lips, his whole body against hers, he was careful. She'd gotten to be able to tell the difference between he and Scarecrow in many ways. In every sense, Jonathan was gentler. He was quieter and more rational. But, of course, every part of Scarecrow was still entirely Jonathan. It was just so impulsive and so different that it had become its own person. She'd become adept in being with them both.

Surprising her out of her thoughts, Jonathan grabbed her hair, tugging down on it in the way she'd urged him to before. She pulled away for a moment, grinning shamelessly.

"Is this my Christmas present?" She whispered, slight blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Mmmm." He smirked at her as she sat up, pulling off her shirt.

"Merry Christmas to us, then." She shrugged, smiling and leaning back down. She bit his lower lip as he raked his fingernails over her back, making her shiver pleasantly. Maybe he was immoral, a murderer. But she was, too. He'd been better for her than any guy—or girl—she'd ever met. She couldn't seem to say no to him. She wasn't sure why she was so willing to be called his, why it was all she wanted. There was nothing in this world holding her down; there was no real reason for her to stay in any one place. She had no obligations. When she killed Victor she'd thrown away the last thing that'd kept her tethered, and that was her dedication to being sane.

There were a number of verifiably _insane_ things about being with a murderer. She didn't care anymore. She sank lower against him, focusing only on the feeling of his hands on her back, his fingers gripping her tightly as she kissed him. _He's killed people, _she thought. _And he's mine._

She gently rocked her hips forward from where she sat on top of him, making him groan slightly. She almost smiled, running her hand along his jaw. He flicked his tongue gently over her lower lip and brushed it against hers and startled, a furious blush spread over her cheeks.

Jonathan allowed Ava to rip his shirt's buttons off, watching with a sort of amused fondness for her impatience. It had become so normal, so fast. Jonathan Crane didn't have _relationships. _How could he? He'd long ago written himself off as unloving and unlovable. He was withdrawn and closed off, ruined by the past. He was damaged, and yet, somehow…here was someone who wanted him in spite of his terrors. No, not in spite of them. _Because _of them. Because she was the same kind of marred person that he was.

Taken by the fierce new feelings that came to him, he scratched his fingernails down her back, taking her lips with his. The great multitasker that she was, she still maneuvered his shirt off of him and onto the floor while she kissed him back. Absentmindedly, his nails were digging harder into her lower back, and when one accidentally broke her soft skin, she breathed in sharply, eyes widening in surprise. Realizing what had happened, he began to apologize. But she cut him off, kissing him again and he simply kissed her back, gently biting her lower lip. She had her arms around his neck, still pressed so close to him that there was no room between them. The room was cold, dim, and the window's curtains were thrown open, but where their skin touched there was fire.

Sliding his hand lower down her back, he tugged gently at the waistband of her pants, and she smiled. She smoothly rolled off of him, pulling off her yoga pants and tossing them aside. Lying still for a fraction of a second, she couldn't keep herself from smiling. She sat up to find his eyes fixed on her, perpetual smirk in place. Suddenly, she reached over to grab him, her hands around his neck as she pulled him to his knees on the mattress. He grabbed her by the waist in return, pressing her to his chest as she kissed his jaw. Slowly, she moved slightly lower, kissing his throat. She felt his pulse, pounding beneath her lips and she smiled at the feel of it. She began fumbling vaguely with his belt and felt him make a noise in between a chuckle and a scoff. She pulled away, arching an eyebrow in mock offense.

"You're not very good with buckles." He murmured.

"You don't have to wear a belt all the time." She muttered in response.

He undid his own belt, button and zipper while Ava watched impatiently. As if to prove a point, she pulled off her own lace underwear in one motion, winking at him. He rolled his eyes at her, grabbing her waist and pulling her against him, turning them both so that she was the one with her back to the headboard. She grinned at him, running her hands through his dark hair as she felt him deftly unhook her bra. She slipped it off her shoulders, removing it and throwing it with her other clothes. He leaned against her, hands against the wall on either side of her head as her hands slipped down from his neck and she grazed her fingertips over his chest.

She wanted to tell him how she felt. She would, if only she had any idea. Imitating him, she tugged at the waistband of his boxers, biting her lower lip as her hair fell over her face slightly. He smirked at her, tugging them off and thinking that she was beautiful, even with her bruises and scars. Heavy and dark marks across her skin, and still she looked like _her. _Very, very gently, he brushed his thumb over the violet bruise on her cheekbone. Her eyes widened a little, taken aback by the careful gesture. As he dropped his hand from her face, she leaned forward by a fraction and pressed her lips to his. Simultaneously, she felt his hands under her thighs, and with surprising strength, he lifted her up to where she could wrap her legs around his waist, pressing her back right up against the wood.

With careful force, he pushed inside her, making her gasp and tighten her legs around his waist. She felt her own heartbeat in her chest, thumping against her ribs with nervous excitement as he moved slowly, rocking rhythmically, making the headboard hit the wall with a small sound each time. She felt dizzy delight, tipping her head back against the wall and breathing unevenly, small gasps or whimpers punctuating her breathing as he picked up speed. Each thrust seemed to drive deeper, sending jolts of sensation through her. Her nails dug into his shoulders and she moaned loudly as her knees weakened. Jonathan practically growled in response, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her tighter as he thrusted harder against her. Taking him by surprise, she moaned his name, her voice high and gasping.

His lips were at her throat, and something about the sound of his name coming from her like that was overwhelmingly pleasing to him. He bit her skin, making her gasp and her muscles tighten, making him shiver. His hand that was touching the wall curled into a fist as she ran a hand down his chest, nails dragging over her skin. His hips moved more forcefully, practically slamming her against the wood. She inhaled and exhaled in jagged gasps, holding on to him tightly as wonderful disorientation swept over her and her tension broke. She gasped, nails digging into his skin and her muscles tightening. As she climaxed, she tightened around him in spasms, bringing about his own end. Gently, he lowered her from where she'd been with her legs around his waist. She kissed him, smiling for a moment before they both settled under the thick comforter on the bed in soft silence.

"I was wondering…" Jonathan said quietly, voice disrupting the still air.

"Mmmm?" She responded, opening her eyes to glance over at him.

"We've never discussed…birth control…" He said hesitantly, looking at her with his brow slightly furrowed. She nodded seriously, chewing the inside of her cheek distractedly.

"I can't get pregnant." She said simply. "I'm not capable."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She said softly. "I don't need kids. I'd be a bad mother anyway." She felt his hand tracing over her forearm and smiled faintly as he ran a finger over her veins. He didn't say anything in response. He thought about it—thought about reassuring her—but he knew the argument. It was the same one he would make. Broken people make broken children. Neither of them would be good parents, not truly. They had no examples to follow.

She rolled over to face him, blonde hair falling over her shoulder.

"I'm glad we killed Victor." She said.

"We didn't. You did. Give yourself that." He pulled her closer to him under the covers and she let him, feeling too sleepy, too comfortable. She felt so oddly safe in the arms of the killer.

"You gave…moral support." She muttered tiredly, smiling to herself. His skin was pleasantly warm against hers, she noticed. There was a lapse in the sleepy banter, a moment of stillness before he spoke again.

"I think we should go back to Gotham tomorrow. People will start to worry…it wouldn't look good to be found." He murmured. She nodded against his chest, feeling unworried at the prospect.

"Tomorrow." She murmured.

* * *

**A/N: "Beautiful Disguise" by Picture Me Broken. Please review, loves! I wanna know what you want! X MikaMurha**


	13. Green Valley

Chapter Thirteen: Green Valley

"_**You're a stranger 'til she whispers you can stay,**_

_**you're a stranger 'til she whispers that your journey's over."**_

* * *

Ava pulled on a leather jacket, running a hand through her hair and smiling gratefully when Jonathan put a cup in her hand. She'd put her things back into her bag and took a last glance around the apartment as she sipped the burning coffee. Her eyes were boring into the place on the floor where she'd killed Victor, and she thought to herself with some surprise that she really might miss the apartment. The bedroom most of all, she though with a slight smile. It was Christmas day, and true to their half-formulated plans, they were going back to Gotham. Jonathan opened the front door, holding it open for her before locking it behind them.

"I have a job to do in Gotham." Jonathan said, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Uh, yeah. I know. You're my psychiatrist, remember?" She asked, smiling slightly. He rolled his eyes, trying not to smile at her comment.

"A different job. Someone's paying me to do my experiments. Well, they want me to make my chemical into an aerosol." He said thoughtfully. Ava raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"That sounds dangerous. Who are they planning to use it on?" She asked.

"I have no idea. It seemed best not to ask too many questions." He said simply. She nodded.

"Do you know how you're going to do that?" She asked. "I'm not very knowledgeable in the field of chemistry, but it sounds difficult." She said. The elevator's doors swung open and they walked out into the empty front room.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm going to have to research it, but I'm sure I can do it with some time."

"Of course you can." She murmured thoughtfully, smiling. She had no doubts that he could do anything he needed to. "Airborne fear." She said softly, a slight smile on her face. "Imagine the chaos."

Jonathan looked at her curiously.

_**It's like the more time she spends with you, the crazier she gets.**_

_It means we're doing a good job._

_**Of course we are. We're good at everything.**_

_Don't be cocky. That's your downfall._

_**Think about it. Where have we failed?**_

_I don't think we need to bring up the past._

_**You're a jerk.**_

You're a child. Just be pleased things are going well here. Ra's Al Ghul is an important man, and he can give us power as long as everything goes perfectly.

_**And she's part of the plan?**_

She's a different plan entirely. But I think she'll want to be a part of it, yes.

**What can she do?**

I'm inclined to think she'll be able to play any part necessary.

He glanced over at Ava as they walked outside. The cold breeze bit into their skin and blew her blonde hair away from her face. Her bruises, he noticed, were faded, soft lavender and green. She met his eyes with a small smile, her skin flushing faintly in the cold.

I'm proud of her.

**You're proud of yourself.**

There was a long pause in Jonathan's mind.

Both. She wouldn't be here without what's happened. And what's happened is a…group effort.

The car rolled to a stop outside the mayor's house. Snow coated everything in a blanket, making the crunch of the rocks softer under the tires. She looked out the window and brushed her hair behind her ear, unsure of what to say. She still didn't know what they were, where they were in their relationship. She put a hand on the door handle and pushed it open, letting in the cold before turning slightly.

"Thank you." She said softly. "I know it's weird, but after that time, after everything with Victor…thanks. I guess I'll…see you soon?" She asked softly. Jonathan watched her, nodded slightly. She turned back, to get out of the car when she felt his hand gingerly touch her wrist. As she looked back to him, he gently pulled her closer by her arm and kissed her. Her eyes closed as she dwelled briefly, only thinking of the feeling of his lips on hers. They broke apart with small smiles, and he let go of her arm as she stepped out of the car, boots crunching on the snow and shut the door behind her.

She walked up the icy path, pausing to dig her house key out of her bag as Jonathan drove away. Clicking and unlocking the heavy door, she pushed it open and walked inside. The house was quiet in the early morning, even on Christmas. As Ava shut the door gently behind her, she was thrown back against it with the force of Naomi flinging her arms around her sister. Ava giggled slightly, wrapping her arms around Naomi and patting her back.

"Merry Christmas!" Naomi said, grinning and releasing Ava.

"You too. Good to see you, shorty." She walked down the hall, readjusting her grip on her bag as she climbed the stairs with Naomi behind her.

"You know you have a lot of explaining to do." Naomi said pointedly as she followed Ava.

"I know. I was hoping you'd give me a minute to sort it all out, first." She said, pushing open the door to her room and dropping the bag on the floor.

"You get ten minutes. Because I'm making cookies." She beamed at her sister.

"You were planning for me to get back today, weren't you?" Ava said, smiling.

"I was planning on kicking your ass if you weren't." Naomi said, grabbing Ava by the hand and dragging her back down the stairs.

"So, where's dad?" She asked. She thought to herself that calling the mayor dad felt unusual on her lips.

"He had to supervise the parade. I saw him before he left. There are gifts for you." Naomi smiled sadly.

"I'll be sure to check them out." Ava smiled, trying to comfort her sister.

"So," Naomi began, making Ava sit at the bar while she went into the kitchen to roll cookie dough into balls. "Who was the guy that dropped you off?" Ava almost dropped the spoonful of cookie dough she'd taken, startled by the question.

"You saw him?" She asked.

"Yeah. You know this place, dead quiet. When I heard a car coming up this early, I went to look out the window. Saw everything." She raised an eyebrow.

"Ahh. Yeah. Remember how I told you I had sex with my psychiatrist?" Ava asked. Naomi's eyebrows shot up higher.

"I thought that was a one time, porn-type scenario." She said, rolling another ball of cookie dough.

"So did I." Ava said. She paused. "It's nothing like that any more, I can tell you that much."

"Are you, like…dating him?" Naomi asked, squinting suspiciously. Ava gave an exasperated laugh, running her hand through her hair.

"I have no idea. That seems like…it doesn't even begin to cover it. It's different from anything I've ever felt before, with…with anyone, I guess." Ava stared off for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "He took me to meet my real father, about two weeks ago." She said softly. Naomi's brow creased with worry.

"What was that like?"

"Well, it turns out…I already, sort of…knew who he was." She said, chewing the side of her thumb.

"What?" Naomi's eyes widened.

"Victor Zsasz. You…probably don't remember, you were even younger than me when he was arrested…he was a serial killer. He killed, like, an insane number of people." She paused and rubbed her forehead, feeling strangely unfocused. "He was an inmate at Arkham. That's where I met him."

"What the hell?!" Naomi had stopped rolling dough now, and stared incredulously at her sister.

"I know. I…I know. It's beyond strange. I know. He sort of…tried to kill me once we told him that I was his daughter. Obviously…it was a failed attempt." She shrugged in an attempt for nonchalance. "He broke out about a week ago. That was the night I left. Jonathan thought we should hide until he was caught, and I wanted you out in case he came here looking for me."

Naomi stared, putting down the spoon and walking around the counter to sit beside her sister, listening with a bewildered expression.

"But, you know, they didn't catch him. He sort of caught us. I have no idea how. But I was alone in the place we were staying and he came in, tried to kill me again." She took a long pause, breathing slowly and feeling torn. Naomi deserved to know what had happened, she did—but what would she think of Ava? She exhaled. "I killed him first." She said softly. Naomi's eyes widened a fraction more.

"You…you killed someone?" She whispered, horrified. The sight of the fear in her little sister's eyes was torment to her. Ava's eyes stung as she looked down.

"I didn't want to." She lied. "He would've killed me. You deserved the truth. I'm sorry."

There was a heavy pause, silence thick in the negative spaces. Naomi churned over the new information with the heavy brow and tight lips of the worried. Ava watched her, silently begging that she'd be forgiven.

As the quiet air began to grow tenser, it was broken. Naomi put her arms around her older sister for the second time that day, her chin resting on Ava's shoulder. Ava was surprised, but felt that she could breathe again. She wrapped her arms around her sister's waist and exhaled.

"I'm sorry you had to do that." Naomi whispered against Ava's hair.

"It's okay." Ava murmured back to her. "It's over now. Let's have our Christmas."

* * *

Ava felt rough hands grab her by the arm. She could only see in waves of color and sound, but she felt the cold room around her. She felt the steel table and the chair, the cuffs cutting into her wrists. Most of all, she felt the one-way glass on the wall, and the eyes behind it, watching.

The room was frigid. The chill raised goosebumps on her skin, and her position was sitting on the thin line between uncomfortable and painful. The chair was ice against her legs, the light bulb above her head harsh and watery at the same time. Blinking slowly, she looked up at the two men who had led her in. One was short, with a weak chin, violently blue eyes, and thinning ginger hair. The other was leaner, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. They both wore the uniforms of policeman. She realized through the vague haze that they were policemen. Why was she in handcuffs?

"You've been accused of murder." The dark one said sharply, sitting down across from her. She only furrowed her brow in confusion, trying to focus on his features. She didn't know what to say to that. "Among other things. You're an accomplice in the case against Dr. Jonathan Crane." He said, raising an eyebrow expectantly. Her lips set tightly as she met his eyes with a cold glare.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said stiffly. She watched him warily as he took a manila file from the ginger man, putting it on the table and opening it, sorting through pages before flicking several pictures her way. They were the sterile, clinical photographs of corpses on the slab. One was a pale-faced young blonde woman with an eyebrow piercing and thick scratch marks down her temples. Under her eyes were dark shadows, and she had the waxy skin of someone long deceased. The second photo was a middle-aged woman, dark brown hair and tan skin. She had no wounds to her face, she looked peaceful in death. The final photo was a young man, college aged perhaps. He had a shaved head and swollen lips, dark purple against his fair, drained skin. Ava squinted at the pictures before looking up at the policeman.

"What is this?" She hissed.

"Cathryn Sanders. Olivia LeBlanc. Nathan Lancaster." He snapped back. "Three people killed, assosciated with you and the man who calls himself Scarecrow." She blinked, looking back at the photos. Suddenly, the knowledge was there, dropped into her brain. Jonathan had killed those people. Not intentionally, no, they were experiments gone wrong. There were always casualties when the work was this dangerous. I can't let them arrest Jonathan, she thought.

"I killed them." She said simply, her pale eyes locking with the policeman's. He glared at her.

"Why?"

"I wanted to." She said. "No motive. Just desire." The lies felt right coming from her lips.

"Serial killers are unpredictable." The ginger-haired cop murmured to his partner. At the sound of his quiet voice, Ava's eyes flashed up to meet his.

"Predictability doesn't topple governments. It doesn't destroy false idols and set new rules. Predictability gets you nowhere. Predictability will never rule this world." She said.

With her last words, spat at the policeman with narrowed eyes, her vision swirled. The colors and sounds and the feel of the air all rumbled around her until a flash of lucidity came. She awoke from her dream.

It had been so vivid. She rolled in the sheets of her bed, pushing her long hair away from her face and breathing slowly. If dreams were to mean something—really mean something—then what could she get out of it? She'd felt no fear. She'd felt no hesitation in declaring herself a murderer for him. How could someone she'd met just a few weeks before have such a strong hold on her? Such a strong influence on her life? She breathed in deeply, feeling a knot in her stomach as she looked over at the empty space beside her. It was so easy to become accustomed to regularity, and she'd admit that she missed him.

If her dream was speaking to her…it was saying something sincere. It seemed that it was telling her that somewhere, subconsciously, she felt so strongly for Jonathan Crane that she would go to prison for him. She would die for him, if that was what it took for him to be free. It frightened her. She didn't like being tied to people so deeply. She felt scared at the prospect. If she cared for him so much already that she could say that—she couldn't imagine losing him. She couldn't imagine having him there one moment and torn away the next. No stretch of circumstance made the idea any safer, any more comforting. There would always be a hole if he were gone. The idea terrified her. She wasn't dependant on people. She couldn't afford to be. It was rare to find someone who she wanted in her life, much less someone she so desperately needed.

She felt so possessed. She hoped to God that he felt the same. He wasn't emotionless by any means, but the raw emotion that resided in Jonathan Crane was locked away inside of Scarecrow. Scarecrow was storage, safekeeping. Jonathan was everything left over after he'd hidden away his weaknesses. Minute by minute, though, Ava hoped that she brought it out of him. She hoped that he missed her in the same way when she wasn't with him. She hoped that he was afraid to lose her, too, and she felt selfish for it.

She rolled over and curled her arms around herself. She wished that he were with her. She didn't mind being on her own, really, but something about the way it felt to be beside him that made her feel safer than she'd felt in all her life.

She remembered the first night she'd woken up with his arms around her. It was a hazy memory, but it felt warm in her mind. Another nightmare had burned itself into her skull the night before she killed Victor, and she'd woken up shaking. Her skin was freezing and anxiety was choking her like a serpent. Her breathing was jagged, uneven, and suddenly she felt his arm wrap around her. They were facing each other—she'd rolled over in her sleep—and he pulled her against his chest. She wasn't sure if he was asleep or not. It had seemed like instinct on his part. He simply pulled her against him, and she felt his steady heartbeat as she fell asleep again, dreamless and safe.

Perhaps she would die for him. Maybe, she pondered, she was willing to give up everything for him because he'd given her everything by showing her she was only as insane as she wanted to be. Her sleepy mind agreed. It was only rational.

* * *

**A/N: "Green Valley" by Puscifer. Thank you all for reading and reviewing/etc. I really appreciate it, you guys make my day with your reviews.**

**X MikaMurha**


	14. Song of Imaginary Beings

Chapter Fourteen: Song Of Imaginary Beings

"_**The phoenix says 'burn for me',**_

_**the devil says 'lie for me',**_

_**the serpent says 'beg for me'**_

_**the siren says 'die for me'."**_

* * *

Ava was in the Narrows. The dark streets, scarcely lit by the weak and broken streetlights, were eerie in the night. The wet pavement crawled with the type of people you cross the street to avoid. Ava was playing bait.

Her high heels clicked against the cement as she pulled open the door to a small bar, holding her head high as she presented the bartender a fake ID and a charming smile. Drink in hand, she seated herself at the very end of the bar. She swiveled on her stool and turned her back to the wall to observe. She tipped the whiskey to her lips, paying close attention to the other people. Some had drinks, some didn't. Some were staring at her; some were staring at each other—or nothing at all.

As the tingling warmth rolled down her throat, she met the eyes of a man staring at her. He was a heavyset man, with dark hair and light eyes. She arched an eyebrow at him and downed her drink. _That didn't take long. I can't believe I actually dressed up for this, _she thought. It occurred to her that the men who lurked in the Narrows' bars probably would've followed her home if she'd been dressed like them. She hadn't, though—she'd worn heels and a tight strapless dress. The winter air was cold, though, and she had a coat in her car the next block over. She flashed a smile at the man before sliding money over the bar. She rose with the quiet sound of fabric sliding before her heels connected with the floor. Not looking at the man any longer, she fixed her eyes on the door and walked out of the bar with confidence and determination.

As she emerged into the cold air, she could practically _feel _the guy getting up and throwing his money at the bartender. She paused for a moment, giving him time to catch up before walking on like she had no idea. She flipped her hair behind her head, smiling to herself. Heavy footsteps slapped the sidewalk behind her as she turned the corner, hand trailing gently against the brick wall beside her. She saw her car, perhaps three yards in front of her. She slowed down, taking her keys from the clutch in her hand, and unlocking the car. The man's footsteps stumbled behind her as he caught up. _Good, he's drunk. That makes this easier, _she thought. She turned around and looked him straight in the eye, fake smile in place as she batted her lashes at him.

"Need a ride?" She asked in a slight purr. She internally cringed at herself, thinking the voice she'd put on was reminiscent of cheap porn. It worked, though, she admitted. The man's eyebrows shot up in incredulous delight as he nodded. She almost felt bad for him. But it was for the greater good. She nodded towards the passenger side of the car with a smile. The man clambered in, uncoordinated from the alcohol that buzzed through his veins.

"Where'r we goin'?" He slurred, trying to focus on her better. She smiled sadly at him, humoring his drunken inquiry.

"You'll see." Her tone was playful as the car lurched forward. "Shhh." She murmured. He obeyed, simply watching her as they drove. She almost felt it wasn't fair to him, to trick him like this. But he wouldn't die—most likely. They drove for fifteen minutes or so, her focused on the road, and him focused on her. The crooked lampposts and yellow light all swam together as they drove on, out of the narrows. She turned down Arkham's driveway, the gravel crunching under her wheels. The headlights were all that illuminated their way now.

"Don't think I've ever been here before." He murmured, squinting out the windshield.

"No, I don't imagine you have." She said quietly, smiling. As she parked, she pulled out her phone and sent Jonathan a text. It read:

_I'm here. Is everyone gone?_

After a second's pause, her phone buzzed in her palm.

_Yes._

She pulled the key out of the ignition, pushing open her door and climbing out. The chill got to her more now that they were closer to the open air. Buildings were crowded in the narrows, and kept the wind at bay. Arkham had only trees, scattered behind it. The cold air blew her hair back as she walked around to lead her drunken abductee inside. He trailed behind her like a dog, boots crunching the gravel under his heels. Lights were on inside, but only a few. Enough to light up through the first floor's windows, showing her where to go. Jonathan had unlocked the front for her, and she swung open the heavy glass. She held it for her new friend as they were welcomed by warmth.

"You…you live here?" The man asked, surprised but not unbelieving. She grinned at him.

"Not exactly. It's just a place I like to go." She said, putting a hand on his shoulder to steer him in the right direction. He let her, going where she went. They reached an elevator and she pressed the basement button, leaning against the wall as the descended.

"Weird place." The guy said softly.

"Mmm. Yeah." She murmured in agreement.

The doors drew open with a mechanical swoosh, revealing to them the wide basement area. It was as it had been before, badly lit by fluorescent lights. There were metal tables and chemistry stations, and most importantly, there was Jonathan. Ava's grip on the man's shoulder tightened a fraction and she pushed him gently in front of her, walking out with him.

"I'm really sorry about this." She murmured, patting him slightly on the shoulder. Before he could respond, Jonathan stepped forward, roughly grabbing the man's forearm and plunging a syringe neatly into the vein that stood out there. The man's face contorted for a moment before he went slack against the side of the table. Ava and Jonathan each took one of his arms, heaving him up onto the metal.

"I should've picked a lighter one." She laughed softly, pushing back her hair. Jonathan gave her a slight smile in return.

"Thank you." He said, meeting her eyes while he secured leather straps around the man's ankles. "You're indispensable." He told her. Her eyes widened slightly and she wondered whether he meant it. She gave him a small smile, glancing around the basement. The lighting buzzed quietly in the background, monotonous and constant. She turned, looking around her for a moment before she saw a wheeled chair pushed under one of the desks. Grabbing it by the back, she spun it around and rolled it next to the table where she sat. She wrapped her arms around her folded legs, rested her chin on her knees and simply watched him while he worked.

It was nice to watch him, soothing even. Naomi had forgiven her as a murderer, but Ava couldn't help feeling that her sister didn't quite feel comfortable with her. Even after talking with her for hours lying under their tree. Ava focused more on Jonathan's fingertips securing the straps around the poor man's wrists, feeling calmer. She wanted her sister to trust her, of course. But things were changing. Her life wasn't anything like it had been a month ago; she was a different person. A month ago, she'd been living the same day for weeks on end. Now it was like she could die on any given day, and she felt like herself. No—not herself. Not the girl she'd known for so long who didn't care or didn't want to care. She was finding someone new. Like Jonathan had said, it was a new version of her. She wanted to make herself known.

She'd felt power, now. And fear, and something stronger that she didn't know how to place. She felt like someone who needed to be a part of something bigger. This thing, this job that Jonathan was doing…perhaps that was her something bigger. There was a storm coming for them, that much was obvious. She hoped that this time she wouldn't have to be blown away by it. That's what her life was, now, it seemed. Hoping and wanting, but not nearly enough doing. She tilted her head to the side, watching Jonathan mix chemicals with his blue eyes focused so precisely. She felt tired. She didn't want to go home.

Jonathan glanced up after about forty silent minutes of work. He'd been in a state of such concentration, he'd forgotten all else. It was relaxing to be working. It was comforting and pleasant, it had always made him feel calm to be in his field. He was mixing drugs while he waited for the alcohol to leave the man's bloodstream—you couldn't have any interfering factors when trying to do an experiment. It was tedious work, trying to make the solution properly. It had to be dispensable as an aerosol, but it had to be strong enough to make the man insane. He leaned away from his flasks, running a hand through his dark hair and glancing over at Ava.

She was still in the chair, but her hair had fallen over her face and her head rested on her bare arms. Her high heels were on the floor beside the chair.

_**That's cute.**_

_That's not the word I would have expected you to use._

_**I'm just happy for you, Jonny. You've got somethin' next-to-normal, here.**_

_I wasn't ever looking for something…normal._

_**No. You weren't ever looking for anything at all.**_

_I wasn't…no._

_**She's not just an opportunity anymore, is she, Jon?**_

_What do you mean?_

_**I mean when this started out, it was personal gain. We were all just using each other. She needed an excuse, you needed the money, and I needed something hot to look at. It's not just an arrangement anymore.**_

There was a long silence in Jonathan's mind.

_I suppose it's not._

He looked at her again, feeling strange with his counterpart's words in his mind. He peered at her, before his eyes flicked over to the chair on which his jacket was strewn. Whatever came over him fluttered through his bones, first, before it made him retrieve the jacket and lay it over her. She wrapped her arms around it, tugging it close to her skin as the ghost of a dreaming smile crossed her lips. Glancing down at her, he could only wonder just _what _had happened to him.

He'd been sure of himself since he was a teenager. Since he'd had the power to end those stupid kids…he shook it off, as he always did. It wasn't the time to revisit those memories. He just hadn't seen it coming, this thing that it had become. He hadn't had any way to know that it would be more than an _arrangement. _It was worrying, to have known this version of himself for so long and now, here it was—changing. He didn't trust it.

* * *

It had been two weeks. The experiments had been getting more and more conclusive as the days stretched on. Jonathan was so close to getting what he needed, and she felt proud to be a part of it. Something about seeing him so proud, so _happy _with his success—she felt secondhand joy. She was excited for him. The pride, the happiness…it was like every moment of triumph wiped away some of her reluctance to experiment.

The look in his eyes, the brightness, it was damn near hypnotizing. That was why she watched him work, really. It was partial fascination, but mostly awe. She liked to see him happy. He was beautiful—it was easy to forget in his seriousness. His pale eyes and his intelligence, his diligent workmanship…she watched him because she wanted to.

On this night, she felt proud. Her part in the tests had been a critical one. Jonathan had said he needed one more. One more test trial, and they'd be ready. One more perfect result. Ava stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and raised an eyebrow, examining the room with tedious scrutiny. _Come out, come out wherever you are…_

A young man stood from his booth. He wore a button-up shirt and slacks, his blonde hair was pushed back. He had a strong jaw and attractive smile—one he threw Ava when she looked him up and down. She returned his smile with enthusiasm, thinking she'd gotten lucky. There had been nights when she'd spent what seemed like hours scanning the bars for suitable subjects. He was the right height and weight, judging by appearance. She uncrossed her legs and met his eyes as he approached her and extended his hand. Shaking it, she smiled sweetly at him.

"I'm Aaron." He said smoothly. Almost imperceptibly, her head tilted to the side. He was familiar—strangely familiar—and he was the kind of guy she'd have been interested in several years ago. She let go of his palm, hesitating as she looked him over again.

"Ava." She said. He nodded, sitting beside her.

"I used to know a chick named Ava. In high school. Didn't know her well, I think we hooked up once." He said casually. Ava raised an eyebrow. That explained the familiarity. Aaron Davis—quarterback of the high school football team. He wasn't a _bad _guy, he simply wasn't a good one. And she _had _slept with him.

"That's funny. I was just thinking, I was wanting to get out of here…if you'd like to join me…?" She smiled coyly at him, hoping he couldn't hear the boredom in her voice.

"I was thinking the same thing." He grinned, putting his hand on her thigh for a moment. Anger flared in her at the uninvited contact, but she restrained. She reminded herself that she was playing the flirt. She instead smiled and slid off the chair, walking out of the bar with him close behind her.

The lights that hung from the building's front buzzed, casting a gold-yellow glow on the dark sidewalk. There was a thin, cold mist hovering around, and though the air was still, it gave Ava the chills to walk out into it. Aaron followed her closely, his footsteps heavy and uncoordinated, good-natured grin still plastered across his face. Ava led him towards her car, feeling routine. As she moved to pull the keys from her pocket, she heard a neat but solid _thump._ Spinning around, she had to blink several times to understand she wasn't hallucinating. A tall, well built man with heavy, black, _armored _clothing was standing there. He lurched toward her, wrapping a gloved hand around her neck and holding her against her car.

Predictably, Aaron took one look at the man and bolted away, throwing a horrified glance over his shoulder as his feet pounded on the pavement. More than anything, Ava felt purely exasperated. _So close._

"What the _fuck?_" She hissed, trying to pry the man's hand away. His grip was tight, steady, and apparently immobile.

"I know who you are." The man said. His voice was deep and ragged, like sandpaper. "You were going to take him somewhere."

"No shit!" She choked on her snarl slightly, and the man loosened up his clamped palm.

"The men you take don't come back." He barked back at her. She paused with her scrambling and met his eyes for a moment.

"Not my fault." She said simply, glaring at him.

"Doesn't matter. I won't let you hurt innocent people." He said.

"_Innocent? _The fuck makes you think they're innocent?" She asked, incredulous.

"They're civilians."

"I'm a civilian!" She snapped. "Besides, who the fuck are you? You're a civilian—you sure as hell aren't police."

"I'm Batman." He growled.

* * *

_**A/N: "Song Of Imaginary Beings" by IAMX. Please review! x**_


	15. Terrible Things

Chapter Fifteen: Terrible Things

"_**I know that I'm afflicted, but who could have predicted**_

_**this monster that I've become? I keep things carefully covered,**_

_**so no one will uncover that I could be the culprit.**_

_**I'm sorry—I can't help it."**_

* * *

"I can't believe this." Ava practically spat, storming out of the elevator to the basement where she knew Jonathan would be. He turned around as she entered, raising his eyebrows in surprise at both her tousled appearance and lack of companion.

"What happened?" He asked curiously.

"Fucking _bat man _happened. Whatever the hell that even _is._" She threw her bag on the floor and collapsed into a chair. He left the desk he was sitting at and came to sit in the chair opposite her.

"I think I need more information." He said, eyes flicking over her. Her hair had been pulled back, but several strands were knocked loose around her face. She had a faint red mark on her throat and what looked like dried blood on her dress. Whatever—whoever—the _bat man _might have been, he hoped it was his blood on Ava and not her own.

"I found a guy. Stupid guy. Would've been an easy catch. He was perfect, too. I got him outside and we were almost in my car when this tool dressed in, like, I don't know—military clothes—he practically jumps me. Pushed me against my car." She noticed the faint clench of Jonathan's knuckles and felt a tiny jolt of pleasure at his protectiveness. "He said he knew who I was. He said that the guys I took home never made it out. He's suspicious." She growled, running her fingers through her hair and cracked her knuckles. Jonathan's jaw tightened, and he sighed.

"Who is he? He's not an official." He snapped.

"I don't know. I had the same thought. Mysterious bitch just said '_I'm Batman'_, like that's even a thing."

There was a moment's pause as they both thought. Jonathan's eyes flicked down to the blood on her dress, and her eyes followed his.

"Oh. Right. I headbutted him in the jaw." She said guiltily. Jonathan's eyebrows shot back upwards.

"Why?"

"He was rude." She shrugged and smiled slightly. "Also, he had this…mask thing. It was kind of cool, or…it would've been if he wasn't trying to be a bat-human vigilante asshole."

"A mask…" Jonathan trailed off thoughtfully as Ava leaned back against her seat, feeling tired.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help tonight." She said, running a hand through her hair again. He glanced back at her, brow furrowing. All his years of confidence and power, and something about social interactions still felt very foreign. He was confident and powerful; he just spent most of his time…alone. He placed his open palm just above her knee, delicately, and pulled her chair closer to his.

"We have time." He murmured. "You don't have to apologize to me." He gripped her waist and slid his other hand up to her hip, pulling her onto his lap. She straddled his hips, feeling a warm, fierce tingling where she touched him. Pretending to flirt with strangers was uncomfortable now, when he was all she wanted in that way. She kissed his jaw, feeling slight stubble there against her lips and smiling as she ran a hand down his chest. She kissed his throat, feeling his pulse and how it matched time with hers, how every beat of their blood made pride rush through her.

"How much time?" She asked quietly as he ran an open palm down her spine.

"Enough." He smirked at her slightly, finding that his pants were becoming less comfortable. She mirrored his smile, raising an eyebrow. Every time they were together like this, it occurred to her that she should tell him how much he meant to her. But every time, she shied away from the words. There weren't any that could do her feelings justice, so she settled on expressing them through actions. She dragged her lips back up his throat and lightly bit his lower lip, feeling how warm his skin was against hers.

* * *

Down the hall, Eric Hodge was lost. He was an Arkham employee, one of Jonathan's men. He opened doors at random and leaned through the cracks, peering around empty rooms in search of the cell phone he must have dropped hours before. What Eric knew about his boss was limited. He knew that the man was very intelligent, very high-ranking on the chain of command, and not much else. He didn't quite know what Jonathan _did, _per se. He didn't know what Jonathan did professionally, and he sure as hell didn't know what he did for fun. His boss didn't seem like the fun-having type. As he pushed open the back door to the basement, he felt a strange crash of emotions, almost exclaiming in his surprise.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. But it had been closer to an empty room and further from his intimidating boss with a blonde girl on his lap. He felt unsure of how to react. He was unsure if they'd even heard him open the steel door. He became unusually aware of himself as embarrassed heat engulfed his neck and face, and he froze like a deer in headlights, stammering silently. He snapped back to himself, and closed the door, his movement jerky and with the leftover shock as he pleaded silently that they hadn't heard him.

"I'll look for my phone later." He muttered to himself in a tone of reassurance. He nodded silently, backing away from the door. He jerkily drew a steel flask from his coat; he pressed it to his lips and drank deeply. The amber whiskey burned in his throat, fading to comfortable warmth. As he walked away, he stumbled slightly. He was glad to shut the asylum's doors behind him, not daring to cast a glance backwards for fear of seeing something else he shouldn't. Tucking it back into his inner coat pocket, he squinted as he thought. He'd recognized the back of that girl's white-blonde head. Something about her was very familiar, and he shook his head.

_What does someone do in this situation?_ He wondered to occurred to him, flicking like a switch. She had those tattoos on her shoulders—she was the mayor's daughter. He almost stopped walking, shoes stuttering on the gravel as he hesitated with shock. The girl was a patient of Crane's, she'd been coming for a little over a month—her visits were confidential, no one outside the business was meant to know for sake of the mayor's reputation. Eric rubbed his forehead. When you see something you shouldn't see, you had two options. You could pretend you'd never seen it in the first place—or you could profit. Vaguely drunken and marginally frightened, Eric made a choice. _He would blackmail his boss._

* * *

From her comfortable place straddling Jonathan, Ava heard a sound. She was too preoccupied to pay it any mind, as was Jonathan. She was testing him, for the fun of it. It was a delight of hers to push him like this. He had wonderful restraint, and seeing him close to the edge pleased her. She'd kissed his neck fiercely, grazed her fingertips over the stretched tent of his slacks. She rocked her hips against him and was thinking about getting on her knees when she'd heard the sound. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before passing it off and continuing. Jonathan's fingers were tightening their hold on her hips and she had her lips pressed to his throat again when they heard the door close. Ava paused this time, pulling back to meet Jonathan's eyes. He glanced towards the door and Ava glowered vaguely in the same direction. Jonathan's hand dropped from her waist as he gently nudged her off of his lap. She rose reluctantly, watching him with agitated curiosity. He strolled around behind one of the tables—piled high with cases—to take out an older looking laptop.

His long fingers tapped keys from behind the screen, clicking in quiet, neat sounds as she crossed her arms and waited. He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers and waved her over gently. She hesitated for a moment, stubbornness dwelling, before she joined him at the laptop. She peered at its screen, squinting slightly before she realized she was watching the asylum's surveillance feed. Ten live cameras watching vigilantly over the halls. All were empty, calm; all except one. The feed of the main lobby. Its buzzing screen flickered as a man walked clumsily into frame, yanking a flask from his coat and drinking from it. Ava raised an eyebrow before turning to look at Jonathan, whose brow was furrowed, his lips set in a tight line.

"D'you know him?" She murmured, turning back to the screen just as the man left.

"Yes. His name is Eric, I believe. He works for me."

"He walked in on us or something?" Ava asked.

"I think he may have." Jonathan muttered. He shut the computer, turning around to lean against the table. After a moment, Ava leaned beside him, glancing up at him in an attempt to be inconspicuous. He looked down, sharply meeting her eyes. The corner of his lip twitched in his usual almost-smile as a faint blush crossed her face. She leaned against his side, feeling strangely comforted by the feeling as his hand wrapped around her waist.

"Is that bad?" She asked him, leaning her head into his shoulder.

"Only if he knows who you are." He said simply. She chewed her lip, thinking in silence.

* * *

Eric rapped sharply on Crane's office door. It was one day later, and he was going to do it—he'd promised himself.

"Come in." Crane said through the door. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door, fixing a stern expression on his face. Crane raised his eyebrows, and something that looked almost like a smirk crossed his face. Couldn't be, though, Eric insisted to himself.

"Doctor Crane." Eric began, seriously. His voice didn't shake.

"Hmmm." Crane watched him, looking almost…_bored. _

"I know something. Something you, uh"—he paused, averting his eyes from Jonathan's icy stare—"wouldn't want getting out. And I want money. I won't tell your secret if you pay me." He said the last words sternly, trying not to let his voice shake as he forced out the statement. Jonathan's eyes narrowed almost indiscernibly, before he relaxed into a flat expression. There was a hint of amusement behind his eyes that Eric couldn't look at long enough to notice.

"You know what, Eric?" Jonathan began, gently vicious. "I'll take you up. You know where I work at night—meet me there. This evening."

_**This is too good.**_

_Agreed._

_**Are we going to kill him? Experiment on him? **_

_I'm still thinking about it. I may have a better idea._

Eric's whole body seemed to stutter in shock. His brows shot up, his mouth opened and closed, floundering ever so slightly in surprise. _It couldn't be that easy. _Eric nodded, trying to look intimidating. He was heavier, more muscular, about the same height as the doctor. But something in the way the other man held himself made Eric feel like a child being disciplined. His attempt at a warning glower was feeble and unconvincing.

"Come in tomorrow," Jonathan said with a soft threat in his tone. "and I'll give you exactly what you've asked for."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, guys & sorry for the short chapter. School and things are kind of in the way currently, but I certainly promise, I haven't and won't abandon you or this story. Big plans! Song is "Terrible Things" by April Smith and the Great Picture Show.**

**Thanks guys! Please review. **


	16. Saturday Night

_**Chapter Sixteen: Saturday Night**_

"_**Pills fall like diamonds from my purse, **_

_**right out the hole in my fur coat.**_

_**Straight down the gutter goes my antidote for a broken girl.**_

_**I promise I'll be the one you want,**_

_**Don't tell me I'm unfixable."**_

* * *

Ava stepped off the elevator, rubbing her forehead. Jonathan's text had put her on edge.

**I need you today. Please come to Arkham. Basement. Important.**

She hadn't slept. Dreams had come and gone as she closed her eyes, rolling like silent films on fast-forward. Each one left her dizzy, confused. She'd climbed out of bed more tired than before, and she looked it. Her long hair was braided down one shoulder, her tank top's sleeves continued to slip off her shoulders, and her eyeliner was smudged around her eyes. Walking into the room, she caught Jonathan's eyes immediately. He rolled away from the desk at which he sat, to meet her in the center of the room.

"You got here quickly." He noted.

"Your text seemed urgent. Weird, but urgent." She half smiled.

"Are you okay?" He asked, eyes flicking over her. She almost blushed, realizing how she looked. He'd seen her looking worse, though. After she'd killed Victor. She nodded.

"I'm fine. Didn't sleep much. What's going on?" She asked, casting a tired glance around the room. Jonathan's hands slipped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. The warmth she felt bloom at his contact was dulled by her wariness. On the few occasions he'd sent messages like that, things had changed. Changed _monumentally. _She let her forehead rest against his chest as she wove her arms around him, hoping uselessly that there wasn't another colossal change coming.

"There's a problem we need to resolve. And I believe it may be best for you to resolve it." He said gently, grazing his fingertips over her lower back. Reluctantly, she lifted her head to meet his eyes.

"A problem?" She asked, followed by a soft laugh and a half smile. "We always have a problem, seems like. All those other bastards have it easy. What's our problem?"

"The man that saw us, yesterday—the one who walked in. He's making an attempt to blackmail me."

Ava pulled back, eyebrows lifted in skeptical shock.

"He wants to blackmail you? Does he really think that's going to work?" Her voice rose, tinged with incredulity and condescension.

"He seems to." He said. If Jonathan Crane were the type to roll his eyes, he would've done it then.

"So what're you going to do?" She asked cautiously.

"Nothing." He said, smirking very slightly. She raised her eyebrows even higher. "I'm not going to do anything, because I think you should do it." Her mouth dropped open slightly. She pulled away.

"Do it…do _what,_ exactly?" She looked at him doubtfully, his cool expression.

"Whatever it takes to make sure he knows he can't blackmail us. Nothing you haven't done before." Her eyes widened at his comment. _She _wasn't the murderer. She was the sane one—she wanted to believe that. She floundered silently, her brow furrowing as she groped for words.

"I don't want to—I don't know—I…" She trailed off. Her nerves tingled under her skin, feeling angry and afraid. She hesitated to say anything, because while half of her—the version of her she'd been a month ago—wanted her to object, to leave…the other half wanted to be his partner. He made her feel like an Amazon, an empress. He'd shown her how powerful she could be, how terrifying. Saying no, leaving or giving up would not only rip a new hole in her heart, but it would also take away all the great things he'd given her. The new kind of confidence would be torn away with him. She wanted him.

He watched her patiently. He could see her searching for something, but he wasn't sure what it was. He was ready to wait for her to find what she needed. Watching her was something like watching a forest fire. Intriguing, fascinating, and terrifying. He felt like he should do something, but in contrast with the roaring flames that raged inside her, his help would be like a water bottle to the blaze. He watched.

"I don't want to kill him." She said, flatly. She met Jonathan's eyes seriously. "It seems like you want me to, but I don't want to be a monster." Jonathan's head twitched to the side in the slightest, and he peered at her with intensity and something she didn't understand.

"Is that how you see me?" He asked, voice hard and cold. He looked close to hurt—if Jonathan Crane could feel that kind of pain at all. Her eyes dropped slightly, her fists unclenching at her sides.

"Are you _serious?_" She practically snarled in her desperation. "Do you really have no idea how I see you? For a genius, you are fucking _stupid, _Jonathan Crane!" She shook her head, staring into his surprised, light eyes, hoping to crack through his barrier. "Have you _really _not noticed how much I care about you? I am nothing like I was a couple months ago, you have changed me more than anything I've ever experienced. You drive me insane! You're the most interesting person I've ever met and I know _nothing_ about you. How is that possible? How can I not know your middle name but know that I could _die _for you?" She was out of breath at the end of her words, tears stinging in her eyes and a mix of relief and worry on her tongue. She raked her trembling fingers through her hair. "I sound insane. And infatuated, and stupid…and I'm pretty sure that I am—all of those things—but it's all true. I had to tell you. I don't think you're a monster, Jonathan. I think you're incredible." She whispered, looking back up at him.

He looked at her, shocked. His eyes wide, his lips slightly parted.

"You…" He began, but trailed off. She frowned at him, eyes pleading. Now wasn't the time for Jonathan Crane to be at a loss for words.

"I can't even tell you how I feel about you. The right words don't exist. I hate you for it." She almost smiled, her eyes stinging. "I don't. But I do. When I said that I don't want to kill him, I wasn't saying I wouldn't. I was saying…that I'd rather you didn't ask me to. Because I won't be able to say no to you." Her voice broke slightly.

Jonathan stared at her, feeling a swarm of emotion trying to crawl up from his stomach. It was admiration and pride, lust tied around sympathy buried under fierceness. It was all woven in fire as it tore through him, and he had no words for her. In the instant she stopped speaking, her words clicked into place. He knew exactly what she wanted to say to him. Her sentiment burned into his skin, his bones, and his heart. It burned like an ember, embedding itself into him and glowing fiercely. He didn't know what to say to her. It almost made him angry, the conflict of finally understanding with the frustration of not being able to explain himself.

Behind all of this was the freight train of relief that barreled into him. _She didn't think he was a monster. _More than that, more than all of it, she said she would die for him. No one had ever even been his _friend _before. The shock he felt was deep and ragged, carved into him. He was overtaken by feeling. His calm demeanor was collapsed under the weight of emotion that he felt.

"Jonathan." She whispered to him, still. "Please say something."

He couldn't. Instead, he grasped her by the waist, pulling her to him again and locking his lips to hers. He wrapped his arm around her tightly, pulling her as close as he could. It was unfamiliar and it was frightening, but he wanted nothing more than for her to be close to him. Her words rang in his head like poetry and he kissed her in a way that was both crushing and gentle. He needed her to _know. _To know that he understood, that he felt what she felt and that he was so grateful.

She felt her knees go weak. Her skin tingled and her stomach flipped as he kissed her, sending shivers down her spine. One of his arms held her to him, both timid and resolute. He bit her lip with gentle precision and she couldn't help but to react, meeting his fire with her own. His free hand ran from the back of her skull down her spine, and she felt a delirious, gentle sob rolling through her. Their lips broke away, parting so slightly as they both needed to breathe. She met his eyes.

It occurred to him to exploit her feelings. Or, more accurately, it occurred to Scarecrow, who whispered it to Jonathan like a dream. Jonathan wanted to slap it away, but something in the idea stuck to the sides of his brain. _We don't need to do that. She'll agree on her own. She'll want this like we do. _He gently pressed his lips back to hers, feeling the way she leaned into him and the way she flicked her tongue against his. As he pulled back, she leaned her head into his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. He felt contentment, and didn't want to trust it. It was volatile, suspicious. But it was because of her. The way she always pressed her ear to his chest, seemed like she was listening to his heartbeat. It was a strange kind of romantic.

The elevator's doors drew open to reveal a startled, disgruntled, and timid Eric. He glared at them, the expression of a child trying to be intimidating. Ava lifted her head and turned, fixing the man with a stare so icy he nearly took a step back. His wariness doubled, but he found the gall to shout at them.

"Is this a joke?" His intimidation was hollowed, and neither Jonathan nor Ava bat an eye. Jonathan whispered, low, so only she could hear.

"_Let's hurt him."_ His voice rolled through her ears, cool and with the slightest growl. She shivered pleasantly, releasing him from her arms with reluctance and the suggestion that she'd want to pick up where they left off.

She felt herself relax into autopilot as she sauntered towards the man. The smile she flashed him was sickly sweet, an easy disguise to mislead him. She took his wrists, pulling him back with her. Spinning him with an effortless grace, she pushed him backwards, letting him stumble into one of the chairs. He fell into it, dumbstruck and trying to glare at her.

Before he could speak, she half-straddled him, one foot on the floor and the other pressed beside his thigh on the chair. She smirked at him, leaning down carefully to meet his eyes, holding his brown-eyed gaze intensely as she slipped the syringe under his skin.

"Ow! What the fuck?!" He shoved her off, already half-stumbling as the chemicals began to pump through his blood. She said nothing, but smirked at him, grabbing his shirt collar and shoving him against the gurney.

"Get on it. Now. Lie down." She growled impatiently. "_Do it, asshole._"

Rather than argue as the drugs flowed through his veins, he fell back on to the steel. The drug she'd injected into him wasn't the toxin—it was to immobilize him. He'd be paralyzed, he'd be unable to resist. And she would be able to frighten the false bravery out of him.

She bound his hands to the table, smiling sweetly at him as he struggled.

"Shhh, stop moving." She lifted the mask from beside the table. It was a cotton mask, fitted to a nose and mouth, and she pressed it over his face. She flicked the switch on it, forcing him to inhale the drug in its most potent form. It was only a moment before the screams began. Knowing how it would effect him, she made small movements. She shook him by the shirt collar, ran her fingernails down his face. She giggled hysterically when he screamed, trying not to remember that this was _wrong. _Her nagging conscience didn't deserve the best of her.

She felt Jonathan's arms wrap around her waist as he leaned over her shoulder, his lips at her ear.

"Did you really need to straddle him?" He asked in a low, rough tone." Ava's smile split wider as she raked her nails down the man's arm. He trembled, shrieking inhumanly at the contact.

"Why, are you jealous?" She murmured the last word in an acidic tone, smirk carving itself onto her lips as she flicked her eyes back over to Jonathan. She saw his face before he composed himself, and she realized that he _was _jealous. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed at the man with a kind of steady burning. He flicked his gaze back to Ava, who shut her mouth, startled with a jolt that ran through her. She turned to fully face him, her back to the gurney and the seizing man, and grabbed Jonathan by the back of his neck, pulling him down to her and pressing her lips to his almost viciously.

"Is he going to pay for it?" She whispered encouragingly, sexually, as she pulled away for an instant.

"Mmmm." Jonathan practically growled against her lips. She pressed herself tighter to him, feeling the tension in his slacks as her heart beat faster.

"Am I?" She nearly purred, kissing his jaw slowly, raking her nails down his shirt. He made a soft noise, somewhere in between coughing and groaning. She grinned at him, catching his lips once more.

"Do you want to be?" He muttered, his hands rolling across her body fluently.

"Not as much as I want to be in charge." She whispered sweetly, her hand slipping down between them to stroke him through his pants. He clenched his jaw once more, pushing her back against the table again. He let go of her hip with one hand, reaching up to grasp her breast roughly. He bowed his head to bite her lip as she tilted her head back, silent gasp on her lips.

"Are you in charge?" He asked teasingly. Her heart pounded and she felt a dizzy kind of exhilaration. She couldn't distinguish. It was the man on the gurney, feeling the terrors she'd inflicted combined with the rush of blood in her veins as one of the only people she cared for touched her. She realized, in a pure burst of clarity, that she was alive.

She pulled Jonathan closer, kissing him once more. As his hands roamed over her, she let her lips slip down his jaw before closing her teeth on the skin at his throat. Not too hard—just hard enough to startle him. He paused for a moment, startled into stillness, but after that instant of shock passed over…he couldn't wait. He pressed his hips to hers, hands on the gurney behind her, palms flat. She had her arms around his neck and kissed his throat, biting here and there and giggling as the adrenaline encouraged her.

A drowsy but aggressively intended elbow lurched at her, jabbing her in the spine. She gasped, glaring and whipping her head around.

"Really?" She snapped, eyes narrowed coldly. She spun around, her back to Jonathan as she bored an intimidating gaze into Eric. Restricted by the leather, he still managed to grasp her wrist. He dug his short fingernails into her skin, clenching her wrist as hard as he could. A sharp whimper escaped her as she wrenched her arm away, clenching her fists so as not to hit him.

"You…dumb bitch." He hissed. He was barely conscious, riddled with fake nightmares, but he found the energy to spit insults at her. She'd have admired him if he didn't sicken her.

"Wanna talk a little louder, sweetheart?" Her voice lilted sweetly as she raised a syringe in her hand. "I don't think I heard you right the first time." Her voice dropped to a daring growl. He coughed disgustingly, air barely making its way into his lungs.

"You're just"—another cough—"stupid. He's using you." He choked, glaring at her. She froze and stared at him silently. "He's just gonna throw you away when he's done. It's"—cough—"obvious." He said. She raised her chin, eyes cast down at him with a vicious coldness.

"If that's true, you won't be alive to see it." She said, voice low and restrained. She slipped the syringe neatly into the bulging vein in his arm, injecting slowly. She wanted to let the burning crawl up his bloodstream and infect his heart as she watched. She didn't have the twinge of regret that normally nagged her. She wouldn't acknowledge it. She wouldn't give it that.

She turned, assuring that the pitiful man would die completely by himself. She'd forgotten entirely that Jonathan was right behind her, starting and hesitating, avoiding his eyes. She'd sentenced Eric Hodge to death, but the doubt was planted in her mind. It had begun to sink its roots in.

* * *

_**A/N: "Saturday Night" by Natalia Kills. It's not as long as I'd hoped, but I wanted to leave you guys with some suspense. Please review, as always. Much love.**_


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